University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

THE  PETER  AND  ROSELL  HARVEY 
MEMORIAL  FUND 


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m^m 


'Mothers  and  Fathers 


MOTHERS 

AND 


JUUETWlLBOKTOMPKiriS 


MEW  YORK 

THE  BAKER  &TAYLOR  CO 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 


THE  TROW   PRESS,  NEW  YORK 


Contents 

PAOC 

I.  WEATHERBY'S  MOTHER  .     .     ,     .     .       7 

II.    ELSIE'S  RETURN 26 

III.  THE  REAL  TRAGEDY 37 

IV.  THE  HOUSE  TO  THEMSELVES    ...     53 
V.    CONSTANCE  DOROTHEA 79 

VL  THE  LADY  FROM  CALIFORNIA      .     .     93 

VII.    TELLING  KATE 116 

VIII.    SOMETHING 127 

IX,  A  MOTHER  OF  FOUR      .     .     .     .     .   142 

X.    THE  RIPER  YEARS 171 

XI.    NATURE 191 

XII.    THE  VIPER 225 

XIII.  THE   HOUSE  BEAUTIFUL 243 

XIV.  THE  MODERN  WAY -281 

XV.    MY  MOTHER'S  DIARY 295 

XVI.    A  SPOILED  OLD  LADY 308 

XVII.  THE  RULE   OF  THE  MAGNIFICENT     .  347 

XVIII.    THE  THRIFTY  SARAH 362 


Mothers  and  Fathers 


MOTHERS   AND   FATHERS 

"Ralph,  Ralph!" 

"Yes— what  is  it,  Helen?" 

"Isn't  gas  escaping  somewhere?  Can 
you  smell  it?  " 

"No;  no,  not  at  all.  You  imagine  it. 
Have  you  been  awake  long?" 

"Ever  since  the  wind  died  down.  It 
is  so  still,  I  can't  sleep.  I  can't  think  of  any- 
thing but  Roy." 

"I  know.  Didn't  you  think  he  was  a 
little  more — cheerful  to-night,  Helen?" 

"  No.  He  seemed  to  me  half  desper- 
ate. I  could  feel  him  crushing  himself  down 
into  his  chair,  forcing  himself  to  hold  a  book 
and —  There!  Don't  you  smell  it  now?  " 

"A  little.  I  will  see  where  it  is. 
Helen,  tell  me — has  he  spoken  of  her  lately?" 

"  Yes.  Night  before  last.  Just  for  a 
moment.  Oh,  curse  her!" 

[3  ] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"Hush,  dear!  These  jets  are  all 
turned  off.  Did  Roy  go  up  to  his  room  when 
he  left  the  library?" 

"I  thought  he  did.  The  wind  was 
raging  so,  I  couldn't  be  sure.  It  is  so  terribly 
still  now!  Wait  for  me." 

"Won't  you  stay  here?" 

"  No.  It  will  quiet  me  to  walk  about 
a  little.  I  suppose  one  of  the  hall  jets  is  turned 
on.  Try  this  one." 

"It  is  coming  from  the  other  end  of 
the  hall,  Helen." 

"  Oh,  then  it  is  the  one  by  Roy's  room. 
How  strong  it  is!  You  go  so  fast,  Ralph,  I 
can't  keep  up.  Walk  softly:  we  don't  want  to 
startle  Roy.  It  is  worse  here — it  makes  me 
a  little  giddy" 

"Helen,  go  back!" 

"No!  Keep  away  from  Roy's  door 
— you  will  disturb  him.  Here,  I  have  found 
the  jet — /  knew  just  where  to  put  my  hand. 
I  think  it  was  turned  on  a  little.  I  can't  be 
sure,  but  I  think  it  turned.  Yes,  I  am  certain 
it  did.  Some  one  must  have  put  it  out  very 

[4] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

carelessly.  Now  we  can  go  back.  Oh,  why 
don't  you  come?" 

"Helen,  I  am  going  into  Roy's  room. 
Walt  here  if  you  will,  but  don't  follow.  Ah! 
Stand  back — till  I —  There,  it's  off  now.  I'll 
open  the " 

"Ralph!  Roy!  Why  doesn't  some 
one  speak?  Ralph,  wake  him  up!" 

"Roy  isn't  in  the  bed,  Helen.  He 
hasn't  been  in  it." 

"  Then  he  went  out.  Of  course  he  went 
out!  Now  will  you  come?" 

"  Dear,  he  may — be  here.  I  shall  have 
to  feel.  I  don't  dare  strike  a  light  yet." 

"Feel?" 

"  The  chairs,  the  floor.  You  said  he 
seemed  to  you " 

"  Why,  you  thought  he  was  more  cheer- 
ful, Ralph!  You  noticed  it.  You  said  so — 
didn't  you!" 

"  I — don't  know,  dear.  There  is  noth- 
ing on  this  side.  I  wish  you " 

"Ah!" 

"What  is  it,  Helen?    Speak!" 

[  5  ] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  No,  no!  It  was  nothing — only  his 
coat  on  a  chair.  It — startled  me.  Go  on;  I'll 
lean  against  the  window  a  moment.  The  gas 
makes  me — don't  stop,  don't  stop!  " 

"  //  only  I  dared  light " 

"Ralph,  I  hear  something!  There  is 
some  one  on  the  stairs.  Listen!  " 

"I  don't  hear " 

"It  is  his  step.  It  is  Roy!  Oh,  God, 
God!  " 

"  Yes,  I  hear  now.  Then  it  was  the 
gale — it  blew  his  gas  out." 

"  Quick,  Ralph,  come  away!  We 
mustn't  seem — • — " 

"Hush!  He  will  know  by  your  voice. 
Let  me  speak.  .  .  .  Roy,  is  that  you?  Your 
gas  blew  out.  Your  mother  and  I  have  been 
airing  your  room.  Good  night!  " 


[6] 


I 

IPeatherby  s    Mother 

WEATHERBY'S  mother  looked  distinctly 
guilty  when  he  entered  the  room.  She  went  on 
talking  to  her  caller  with  the  nervous  fluency 
of  one  hastily  changing  the  subject,  and  in  an 
elaborately  accidental  fashion  contrived  to  drop 
a  newspaper  over  the  open  magazine  in  her  lap. 
When  Mrs.  Carter  had  gone,  she  inquired 
solicitously  about  lier  son's  day,  avoiding  his 
eyes. 

"  Mother,"  said  Weatherby  remorse- 
lessly, "  you  have  been  talking  about  my  im- 
mortal works."  There  was  amusement  as  well 
as  resigned  patience  in  his  voice,  but  Mrs. 
Weatherby  felt  the  irritation  underneath  and 
defended  herself  with  flurried  indignation. 

"  I  did  not,  Howard!  I  had  to.  She 
brought  the  subject  up  herself." 

"  Didn't  you  just  casually  ask  her   if 

[  7] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

she  had  seen  the  February  magazines?  "  His 
tone  was  still  bantering,  but  his  forehead  was 
slightly  drawn  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  pierce 
the  newspaper  lying  so  artlessly  on  her  lap. 
Mrs.  Weatherby  resorted  to  dignity.  She  laid 
the  paper  aside  and  placed  the  magazine  on 
the  table. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know  how  we 
reached  the  point,  Howard.  But  when  she 
asked  me  about  your  poems  I  could  not  very 
well  snub  her  on  the  subject — as  you  do  me. 
And  she  thought  this  extremely  pretty,  dear." 
The  desire  to  mollify  came  uppermost  again. 
"  She  said  it  was  as  good  as  anything  Keats 
ever  wrote.  I  don't  see  why  you  should  always 
act  so  ashamed  of  your  pieces." 

"  But,  dear  mother,  if  you  would  only 
let  the  public  discover  them  for  itself!  "  How- 
ard said,  wearily.  "  When  you  slug  a  nice, 
kind  old  lady  with  a  madrigal,  and  then  de- 
mand, *  Isn't  that  as  good  as  anything  Keats 
ever  wrote? '  of  course  she  is  going  to  say  yes. 
She  has  been  drinking  your  tea  and  sitting  on 
your  chairs — it's  the  least  she  can  do.  Only  " 

[8] 


Weatherbyy  s  Mother 

— his  voice  suddenly  became  serious,  and  even 
entreating,  as  he  stood  before  her,  long,  thin, 
and  gentle,  hating  above  all  things  to  give  pain 
— "  only  don't  you  realize  that  it  makes  me 
rather  ridiculous?  " 

Mrs.  Weatherby  turned  to  her  unfail- 
ing help  in  time  of  trouble — hurt  feelings. 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  mortify  you,  How- 
ard, "  she  said,  very  meekly. 

Weatherby  looked  down  on  the  plump, 
powdered  face,  handsome  in  spite  of  its  in- 
jured expression,  on  the  white  hair  coiling  and 
puffing  between  its  combs  with  an  elaborate 
precision  that  someway  suggested  landscape 
gardening,  and  the  stout  figure  in  its  tight  and 
fashionable  garments,  and  sighed  to  himself. 
But  he  was  a  good  son.  He  kissed  her  and 
made  affectionate  fun  of  her,  and  she  relented 
to  his  intention.  Her  dignity  would  have 
chosen  a  more  deferential  overture  to  peace, 
but  she  had  learned  to  make  sighing  compro- 
mises in  a  long  life  with  an  irreverent  child.  , 

"  How  did  your  club  meeting  go  off?  " 
he  asked,  presently.  "Any  hair-pulling?" 

[9] ' 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Very  pleasantly/'  said  Mrs.  Weath- 
erby,  ignoring  the  latter  question  beyond  a 
slight  lifting  of  eyebrows  at  its  questionable 
taste.  "  Mrs.  Carter  was  made  chairman  of 
the  next  entertainment  committee,  and  I  and 
Mrs.  Van  Home  and  Elizabeth  Trent  are 
to  serve  with  her."  Weatherby  had  lifted 
his  head  with  a  quick  frown  at  the  last 
name. 

"  What  is  Bessie  Trent  doing  on  that 
committee?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Apparently  trying  to  block  our  plans 
and  make  everything  as  difficult  as  possible," 
said  his  mother  with  tightened  lips.  "  I 
have  never  forgotten,  Howard,  the  way  she 
scratched  your  face  because  you  made  a  rhyme 
about  her,  and  I  don't  think  the  past  twenty 
years  have  improved  her  in  the  least.  All  the 
others  want  me  to  give  a  reading  from  Brown- 
ing, but  she  seems  to  think  that  would  not  be 
sufficiently — entertaining." 

"Well,  really,  you  know,"  Weatherby 
began  with  cheerful  energy,  "  Browning  is 
rather — overdone,  don't  you  think?  " 

[10] 


Weatherby's  Mother 

"  I  realize  that  you  don't  like  my  read- 
ing, my  dear;  "  his  mother  spoke  with  careful 
politeness.  "  But  as  the  club  does,  and  as  you 
do  not  have  to  go  to  the  entertainments " 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  he  said  contritely. 
"  It's  a  very  harmless  vice,  dear  mother,  and  I 
suppose  you  must  have  a  flaw  or  two,  to  keep 
you  human.  Don't  mind  me — I'm  a  carping 
ass."  And  he  rubbed  his  cheek  against  hers, 
then  went  to  dress  for  dinner. 

In  his  own  room  he  paused  at  his  desk 
and  took  from  a  drawer  a  little  photograph, 
of  a  fashion  ten  years  past.  The  face  was  full 
of  young  curves,  the  appealing  roundness  of 
sixteen,  but  he  found  there  force,  humor,  and 
a  trace  of  impishness. 

"  What  a  jolly  mother  you  would  make, 
thirty  years  older!  "  he  reflected.  "  You  would 
be  so  o«,  Bessie  Trent !  One  could  be  intimate 
friends  with  a  mother  like  you."  Then  he  put 
away  the  thought  as  disloyal  and  dropped  the 
photograph  back  again  with  a  frown.  The 
Elizabeth  Trent  of  to-day  was  a  more  compli- 
cated problem  than  the  school  girl  who  had 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

given  him  her  photograph,  or  the  small  child 
who  had  scratched  his  face. 

A  few  days  later  Weatherby,  coming 
home  early,  heard  voices  in  the  drawing-room 
and  paused  in  the  hall  to  reconnoiter.  A  vo- 
luminous flow  of  silk  from  a  big  chair  suggested 
Mrs.  Carter,  and  against  the  window  was 
Elizabeth  Trent's  profile,  looking  so  pro- 
foundly bored  that  he  smiled  to  himself.  Evi- 
dently there  was  a  committee  meeting  in  prog- 
ress and  his  mother  had  been  giving  a  sample 
reading,  for  the  sonorous  roll  of  her  Browning 
voice  came  to  him  as  he  closed  the  front  door, 
and  a  scattering  fire  of  small  compliments  could 
now  be  heard. 

"Wonderful!"  "  Oh,  charming!" 
uAnd  so  perfectly  rendered!"  Elizabeth 
Trent  said  nothing,  and  Weatherby  nearly 
laughed  outright  at  the  suppressed  impatience 
of  her  face  and  attitude. 

"  Poor  Bess !  I  know  just  how  you're 
feeling,"  he  murmured,  with  twinkling  eyes. 
Then  Mrs.  Van  Home's  voice  fell  on  his  ears 
with  a  cold  shock. 

[12] 


Weatherby' s  Mother 

"  It  must  be  beautiful  to  have  such  a 
talented  son,"  she  was  saying.  "  I  envy  you, 
Mrs.  Weatherby." 

Weatherby  stood  rigid,  the  color  slowly 
rising  to  his  forehead.  Oh,  it  couldn't  be — she 
wouldn't  do  that !  He  moved  cautiously  till 
his  mother  was  in  range  between  the  portieres. 
In  her  hand  was,  not  a  volume  of  Browning, 
but  a  publisher's  proof  that  he  had  been  cor- 
recting the  night  before.  On  her  face  was  a 
heavenly  composure. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  muttered  Weatherby, 
helplessly.  His  eyes  again  sought  Bessie 
Trent's  bored  profile,  but  he  no  longer  found 
it  amusing.  The  red  in  his  face  deepened  and 
he  was  turning  noiselessly  to  escape  when  his 
mother's  voice  arrested  him. 

"  Yes,  Howard  has  great  talent.  All 
the  magazines  are  running  after  him,"  she  said. 
"  Now  I  am  going  to  read  you " 

Weatherby  turned  back  in  desperation 
and  entered  the  drawing-room. 

"  Oh — am  I  interrupting  a  committee 
meeting?  "  he  asked,  pausing  deferentially. 

[13] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

11  Oh,  no;  we  had  finished,"  said  Eliza- 
beth Trent,  rising  hastily.  His  mother  dropped 
the  proof  under  the  table  and  welcomed  him 
blandly.  When  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the 
others,  he  made  himself  face  Elizabeth. 

"  Well,  Bessie,'5  he  said  nervously. 

"How  is  the  poet?"  she  returned. 
Her  smile  was  all  derision,  and  he  found  him- 
self voiceless  before  it.  "  You  came  at  the 
wrong  moment,"  she  went  on.  "  You  should 
time  your  entrances  better.  You  have  cut  us 
off  from  a  great  privilege."  She  gave  him  a 
little  mocking  smile  and  left  before  he  could 
answer. 

He  waited  grimly  for  the  others  to  go, 
resolved  to  settle  this  thing  forever  with  his 
mother,  with  no  weak  relenting  before  hurt 
feelings.  But  Mrs.  Weatherby,  after  a  glance 
at  his  face,  insisted  on  Mrs.  Carter's  staying 
to  dinner,  and  when,  after  an  interminable 
evening,  Weatherby  returned  from  taking  her 
home,  his  mother  had  discreetly  gone  to  bed. 
Not  till  the  next  evening  could  his  attack  be 
made,  and  then,  unsupported  by  the  freshness 


Weatherby's  Mother 

of  his  indignation,  he  came  off  with  a  very  poor 
victory.  Mrs.  Weatherby  suggested  that  if  he 
preferred  she  would  never  mention  him  in  any 
way:  perhaps  that  would  be  best:  it  was  hard 
to  teach  an  old  woman  new  ways,  and  if  her 
pride  and  affection  were  a  trial  to  him — here 
she  cried,  and  Weatherby  felt  like  a  plain  brute. 
Presently  he  discovered  himself  begging  her 
pardon,  and  gave  up  with  a  sigh  of  despair. 
He  knew  that  it  was  unfair  of  her  to  cry,  but 
he  could  not  stand  up  against  it. 

A  couple  of  weeks  later  Weatherby,  wish- 
ing to  refer  to  a  small  volume  of  verse  he  had 
published  the  year  before,  searched  the  house 
in  vain  for  a  copy.  His  mother  gave  them 
away  so  fast  that  there  was  seldom  one  on 
hand,  and  now  even  his  private  book  case  had 
been  rifled.  The  next  day  he  stopped  furtively 
at  a  book  store  and  asked  for  it,  with  a  guilty 
stammer  over  the  name.  The  clerk  held  out 
the  little  gray-and-gold  volume  for  inspection. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  said  Weatherby  hast- 
ily.    "  I'll  take  it  with  me." 

"Ah — so  the  poems  are  still  selling?  " 

[15] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

said  a  cool,  amused  voice  at  his  shoulder.  His 
start  brought  him  face  to  face  with  Elizabeth 
Trent.  He  flushed  miserably,  then  clutched  at 
his  self-possession  and  managed  a  rueful  laugh. 

"  Bessie,  I'd  rather  you  had  caught  me 
picking  a  pocket!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  So  would  I,"  she  assented,  with  a 
trace  of  sharpness.  Peace-lover  though  he  was, 
Weatherby  could  fight  on  occasion.  He  paid 
for  his  book  with  a  new  effrontery,  then  looked 
reflectively  down  on  her. 

"  You  scratched  my  face  for  one  of  my 
early  works;  and  the  later  ones  seem  to  affect 
you  in  exactly  the  same  way,"  he  said  mildly. 
"  I  wonder  why — is  it  poetry  in  general,  or 
just  my  idea  of  it?  I  must  have  improved  a 
little  in  the  interval." 

She  recognized  the  challenge  with  a 
slight  flush,  but  stood  her  ground  valiantly. 

"  Your  work  has  improved — yes,"  she 
said  with  meaning;  "it  is  extremely  good,  for 
modern  verse." 

"  Then  it  is  I  myself  who  have  gone 
downhill?" 

[16] 


Weatherby's  Mother 

She  shrugged  slightly.  "  Oh,  well,  I 
don't  believe  I  like  celebrities.  But  others  do 
— your  name  will  be  on  every  tongue  at  the 
club  this  afternoon.  The  applause  for  you  will 
be  quite  as  loud  as  for  Browning — louder, 
even.  It  is  too  bad  you  can't  be  there!  "  She 
turned  to  go,  with  a  somewhat  trying  smile  and 
nod,  but  Weatherby  did  not  notice.  He  was 
staring  at  her  in  growing  dismay. 

"  What  do  you  mean — about  me — at 
the  club?"  he  burst  out.  "  Oh,  you  don't — it 
couldn't " 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise  and  her 
face  unbent  a  little. 

"  Didn't  you  know  that  your  mother  is 
going  to  read  from  your  works,  as  an  encore — 
by  unanimous  request?  " 

"Oh,  Lord!" 

His  sincerity  was  unmistakable.  She 
laughed  out,  and  the  old  friendliness  suddenly 
dawned  in  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  would  like  it!  " 
she  said  in  frank  relief. 

"Like  it!  "  he  stammered.     "  Like  it? 

[17] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

My  good  Bessie,  my  life  is  one  long  fight  to 
keep  my  mother  from  making  a  public  show  of 
me.  I  have  hurt  her  feelings,  I've  insulted  her 
— and  she  won't  stop.  I'm  perfectly  helpless. 
What  can  I  do?"  All  the  bitterness  of  past 
struggles  was  in  his  voice.  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  ever  broken  out  on  the  subject,  and  he 
could  not  stop.  u  You  have  no  idea  what  she 
does,  Bessie!  She  has  special  copies  made  on 
vellum  and  gives  them  round  at  Christmas.  I 
caught  her  once  reading  samples  of  me  and 
then  of  Keats  to  a  select  crowd  and  making 
them  guess  which  was  which!  She's  a  dear 
good  woman  and  she'd  give  her  life  for  me, 
and  I  try  to  be  big  about  it  and  find  it  merely 
amusing.  But,  by  heaven,  I  can't.  This  has 
got  to  end.  What  time  does  your  show  be- 
gin?" 

"  At  three.  I  am  just  flying  home  to 
dress." 

"  Well,  I  shall  settle  one  number  on 
your  programme."  And  he  left  her  with  scant 
ceremony.  But  she  smiled  after  him  as  she 
had  not  since  the  days  of  his  obscurity. 

[18] 


Weatherby's  Mother 

A  growing  fear  made  Weatherby  rage 
at  the  slowness  of  his  car.  Yesterday  he  had 
finished  the  first  draught  of  a  little  drama  in 
verse,  the  most  serious  attempt  he  had  yet 
made.  His  mother  had  begged  to  see  it,  and 
he  had  laughingly  refused,  on  the  ground  that 
this  was  his  one  intelligible  copy  and  that  he 
could  not  trust  it  out  of  his  hands.  His  real 
reason  was  a  certain  divine  shame  that  came 
with  every  new  piece  of  work,  a  longing  to 
treasure  it  in  secret  for  a  few  days  till  the 
glamour  of  the  hours  of  labor  was  a  little 
dimmed  and  comment  from  without  would  not 
seem  a  hateful  familiarity.  His  mother,  of 
course,  did  not  understand — could  not  have 
understood,  even  if  he  could  have  explained — 
and  persisted,  so,  finally,  being  a  good  son,  he 
had  given  it  to  her,  with  many  exaggerated 
cautions  for  its  safe-keeping.  Then  he  had 
abruptly  gone  off  for  the  evening.  What  she 
had  wanted  of  it  became  every  moment  more 
certain  and  more  exasperating.  The  club  was 
to  be  honored  with  a  first  hearing. 

She    had    gone    when    he    reached    the 

[19] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

house.  Being  on  the  reception  committee,  she 
had  to  be  there  early,  he  remembered.  Weath- 
erby  made  a  careful  search  for  his  manuscript, 
knowing  quite  well  that  he  should  not  find  it; 
then,  with  set  lips,  turned  toward  the  club.  He 
had  never  been  quite  so  angry  in  his  life.  For 
the  first  time  he  forgot  that  there  was  an  ele- 
ment of  the  ridiculous  in  the  situation.  She 
had  got  to  understand — if  he  had  to  leave 
home  to  teach  her. 

A  block  on  the  car  line  forced  him  to 
alight  several  squares  from  the  club  and  he 
noticed  with  surprise  that  snow  was  beginning 
to  fall.  The  sidewalks  were  already  wet  and 
slippery  with  it.  At  the  door  of  the  club-house 
he  was  told  that  his  mother  was  not  there:  she 
had  come  and  gone  hurriedly  away  again.  As 
he  stood  on  the  steps  wondering  what  to  do, 
the  familiar  family  carriage  of  the  Trents 
paused  in  front  and  Bessie  came  to  his  relief. 
She  volunteered  to  find  out  where  his  mother 
had  gone,  and  disappeared  with  a  glimmer  of 
amusement  in  her  eyes;  but  this  had  quite  van- 
ished when  she  came  back.  She  looked  grave 

[20] 


Weatherby's  Mother 

and  puzzled.  It  seemed  his  mother  had  been 
taking  off  her  things  in  the  dressing  room,  talk- 
ing pleasantly  with  the  maid,  when  suddenly 
she  had  given  a  little  cry,  looked  wildly  about, 
then  caught  up  her  wrap  and  rushed  out  with- 
out bonnet  or  gloves.  She  had  given  no  ex- 
planation, but  she  had  appeared  deeply  dis- 
tressed. 

They  looked  helplessly  about.  The 
drug  store  on  the  corner  gave  Bessie  a  dim  sug- 
gestion. Could  she  have  felt  ill  and  gone  there 
for  some  remedy? 

"  She  does  faint,  once  in  a  very  great 
while,"  Weatherby  admitted.  "  But  surely  she 
would  have  sent  some  one."  Nevertheless 
they  went  in  and  asked. 

Mrs.  Weatherby  had  not  been  there, 
but  the  clerk  had  seen  her,  in  a  silk  gown  with 
no  bonnet,  holding  a  wrap  about  her  with  bare 
hands.  He  had  been  interested  because  she 
was  so  evidently  distressed  about  something. 
She  had  hurried  up  to  a  policeman  who  was 
passing  and  they  had  talked  for  several  mo- 
ments. After  receiving  directions,  she  had 
[21] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

waited  a  moment  for  the  car,  then,  finding  the 
line  blocked,  had  turned  and  walked  hurriedly 
south.  The  snow  had  just  begun. 

South  was  directly  away  from  home. 
They  returned  to  the  street  in  a  silence  that 
covered  alarmed  thoughts,  avoiding  each 
other's  eyes.  The  policeman  was  not  in  sight, 
and  there  seemed  nothing  to  do  but  to  take  the 
same  direction. 

In  nearly  every  block  some  one  had 
seen  her,  with  the  snow  falling  on  her  uncov- 
ered hair  and  her  distressed  face,  hurrying  reck- 
lessly. Once,  when  she  had  nearly  fallen,  a 
boy  had  caught  and  steadied  her;  she  had  not 
thanked  him  or  seemed  to  notice.  Evidently 
her  whole  soul  had  been  bent  on  reaching  some 
point. 

"  Bess,  you  must  go  back,"  said  Weath- 
erby  suddenly,  when  they  had  walked  half  a 
mile  without  result.  "  It  may  take  hours,  and 
your  feet  are  wet." 

She  did  not  trouble  to  answer.  "  Shall 
you  tell  the  police?  "  she  asked  instead. 

"  Oh,  not  yet — I  can't!  "  he  exclaimed. 

[22] 


s  Mother 

"  What  do  you  think,  Bessie  ?  Do  you  sup- 
pose she — "  He  could  not  say  it,  but  she  knew 
his  thought. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  she  said  stoutly.  "  Peo- 
ple don't  lose  their  minds  all  in  a  moment. 
There  is  the  power-house — let  us  go  across  and 
ask  there.  All  those  conductors  standing 
about — "  She  broke  off  with  a  clutch  at  his 
arm.  A  door  leading  to  the  car  company's 
offices  had  opened  and  there  stood  Mrs, 
Weatherby,  pale  but  radiant,  clinging  to  a 
white  package. 

"Mother!"  cried  Weatherby  as  they 
ran  up  to  her.  She  did  not  seem  at  all  sur- 
prised to  see  them. 

"  I  have  it,  dear,  quite  safe,"  she  called 
joyfully.  "  I  have  been  over  it  and  not  a  page 
is  missing.  The  conductor  picked  it  up  just 
after  I  got  out  and " 

"  Oh,  mother!  That  wretched  poem — 
why  did  you  bother?"  exclaimed  her  son,  an- 
ger and  remorse  and  overwhelming  tenderness 
struggling  in  his  voice. 

"  She  is  not  well,"  said  Bessie  sharply. 

[23] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

He  had  barely  time  to  put  his  arms  about  her 
before  she  sank  limply  against  him. 

They  carried  her  to  a  drug  store,  and 
she  was  soon  looking  weakly  up  at  them,  while 
Bessie  rubbed  her  hands  and  the  young  woman 
cashier  fanned  her  with  a  magazine  and  her 
son  hovered  over  her  with  brandy.  Suddenly 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  Howard,  if  I  had  lost  it!"  she 
murmured. 

"  Mother,  dearest!  "  he  pleaded.  "  It 
wouldn't  have  mattered.  I  am  ashamed  that 
you  cared  so  much  about  the  thing — it  wasn't 
worth  it.  I  never  dreamed  how  much  you — 
you  make  me  feel  like  a  beast.  Now  I  am  go- 
ing to  telephone  for  a  carriage  and  take  you 
home." 

'*  The  club,"  she  began,  starting  up. 
Bessie  pressed  her  back  again. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Weatherby,  I  will  see  to 
the  club:  don't  worry  about  it,"  she  said,  with 
unwonted  gentleness.  When  Weatherby's  back 
was  turned,  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  older 
woman's  cheek. 

[24] 


Weatherby9  s  Mother 

When  Weatherby  came  back  he  found 
the  cashier  still  fanning  with  the  magazine  and 
cheering  his  mother  with  conversation,  while 
Bessie  stood  by  looking  pale  and  tired.  Mrs. 
Weatherby,  with  returning  brightness,  glanced 
up  at  the  brown  cover  fluttering  before  her. 

"  Is  that  the  new  March  number?  "  he 
heard  her  say.  "  My  son  has  a  poem  on  the 
first  page — you  may  have  noticed  it.  It  has 
been  very  highly  praised."  The  cashier  turned 
to  the  first  page  and  was  pleasingly  impressed. 

Weatherby  glanced  at  Bessie,  and  she 
smiled  at  him  with  sudden  tremulousness.  He 
smiled  back  with  misty  eyes,  and  his  hand 
closed  over  hers  for  a  long  moment. 

"  It  was  we  who  had  to  be  taught,'1  he 
said  vaguely;  but  she  seemed  to  understand. 


[25] 


II 

Elsie  s    Return 

"  So  Elsie  will  be  back  on  Tuesday. 
Dear  me,  Mrs.  Kennedy,  how  glad  you  must 
be." 

"Yes;  it's  three  months,"  assented 
Mrs.  Kennedy,  with  a  maternal  smile. 

"  It  must  have  been  so  lonely  for  you," 
went  on  a  mother  of  five.  "  I  suppose  you  can 
hardly  wait.  I  am  so  glad  for  you." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  glad  Elsie  is  coming, 
at  all,"  said  a  venerable  voice.  "  It's  the  first 
time  I  have  seen  anything  of  Bessie  Kennedy  in 
twenty  years.  I  know  how  it  will  be  when 
that  one  chicken  gets  back." 

"'You  have  been  so  kind — all  of  you," 
said  Mrs.  Kennedy  warmly.  "  I  haven't  been 
so  dissipated  for  years." 

"  My  dear  Bessie,  it  wasn't  kindness;  it 
was  grabbing  our  opportunity,"  protested  the 

[26] 


Elsie's  Return 

venerable  voice.  "  I  wanted  you  for  dinner  on 
Tuesday  night,  to  meet  a  charming  young  pro- 
fessor; but  I  suppose  you  won't  come  now." 

"  I  don't  think  your  young  professor 
would  appreciate  the  honor,"  commented  Mrs. 
Kennedy.  "  You  forget  that  I'm  nearly  fifty." 

"  And  my  young  professor  is  fifty-five," 
was  the  triumphant  answer.  "  Dr.  Deane 
thought  you  most  interesting.  He  talked  about 
you  much  more  than  I  thought  necessary.  Still, 
I  know  you  mothers.  You'll  prefer  Elsie's 
chatter  to  all  the  wise  and  delightful  men  on 
earth.  Send  her  away  again  soon,  won't 
you?" 

"  Indeed  she  won't,"  laughed  the  moth- 
er of  five.  "  I  know  all  about  it,  and  I  sympa- 
thize, Mrs.  Kennedy." 

There  was  bright  color  in  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy's face  as  she  walked  briskly  home,  and 
she  was  still  smiling  a  little  as  she  shut  her 
front  door. 

"  People  always  did  like  me  when  I 
was  a  girl,"  she  admitted  to  herself  as  she  took 
off  her  bonnet  before  the  hall  mirror.  "  Dr. 

[27] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Deane  was  really  a  remarkably  interesting  man. 
Dear  me,  what  a  blessing  it  is  to  have  good 
hair  when  you're  an  old  woman!  I  wonder 
how  I  should  look  with  it  pompadour!  "  She 
lifted  the  soft  gray  ripples  and  drew  them  to- 
gether over  the  parting,  looking  critically  at  the 
effect.  "  But  Elsie  wouldn't  like  it,"  she  added 
with  a  slight  sigh;  "and  I  hate  fixed  up  old 
ladies,  myself." 

She  turned  into  the  parlor  and  lit  all 
four  gas  burners,  glancing  with  a  faint  air  of 
apology  toward  a  photograph  of  a  young  girl 
over  the  fireplace.  She  loved  bright  light,  but 
Elsie  would  not  have  anything  but  the  dimmest 
of  muffled  lamps,  and  she  had  kept  dutifully 
to  these,  her  book  thrust  well  into  their  meager 
spot  of  light,  until  the  kerosene  had  given  out 
a  couple  of  weeks  before.  The  item  had  been 
on  her  marketing  list  every  day  since,  but  some- 
way she  had  always  forgotten  it.  She  looked 
about  the  room  with  a  guilty  satisfaction  in  the 
vulgar  blaze  of  gaslight,  even  while  reminding 
herself  that  the  kerosene  must  be  in  before 
Tuesday. 

[28] 


Elsie's  Return 

Old  Kate  summoned  her  to  dinner  with 
a  benevolent  smile. 

"  You'll  be  glad  to  have  Miss  Elsie 
back,  ma'am,"  she  said. 

"Indeed  I  shall,"  agreed  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy. "  You  must  remember  not  to  use  onions 
after  she  comes,  Kate.  You  know  she  can't 
bear  them  in  anything." 

"  And  she'll  be  wanting  sherry  wine  in 
the  pudding  sauce  again,"  Kate  added. 

"  Yes ;  I'm  glad  you  thought  of  it. 
And  you  must  get  out  the  salt  cellars  and 
spoons.  Miss  Elsie  would  be  terribly  shocked 
at  this  shaker,"  Mrs.  Kennedy  said,  comfort- 
ably sprinkling  her  soup.  "  Suppose  you  give 
me  corned  beef  and  a  little  cabbage  to-morrow 
night,  Kate.  This  will  be  the  last  time  we  can 
have  it." 

It  was  a  pleasant  little  meal,  with  the 
cheerful  gaslight  irradiating  bright  silver  and 
clean  linen.  The  stimulation  of  the  afternoon 
was  still  with  Mrs.  Kennedy,  and  the  room 
seemed  full  of  approving  presences.  She  smiled 
often  to  herself,  and  once  or  twice  repeated 

[29] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

half  aloud  some  little  speech  of  the  afternoon. 
When  she  left  the  table,  there  was  a  gentle  dig- 
nity in  her  carriage,  as  though  others  had  risen 
to  their  feet  and  some  one  had  sprung  to  open 
the  door.  Back  in  her  bright  parlor  she  sat 
with  her  open  book  in  her  lap,  looking  con- 
tentedly about  her. 

When  the  doorbell  rang,  she  started 
instinctively  to  escape  to  the  dining  room,  but 
then  sank  back,  remembering  that  it  could  not 
be  any  caller  for  Elsie.  Kate  brought  in  Dr. 
Deane's  card  and  Dr.  Deane  himself  at  the 
same  minute. 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  that  you  said 
I  might  call,  have  you,  Mrs.  Kennedy?"  he 
began. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  remembered  it," 
she  said  with  a  touch  of  shyness  in  her  cor- 
diality. She  felt  a  trifle  conscience  stricken 
about  the  four  gas  burners,  but  the  doctor  was 
not  visibly  shocked;  and  it  was  a  comfort  to 
see  the  person  you  were  talking  to.  He  stayed 
two  hours,  and  they  discussed  the  wonders  of 
modern  science,  and  the  Panama  Canal,  and  the 

[30] 


Elsie's  Return 

earthquake  in  Japan,  and  early  days,  and  in- 
dulged in  anecdotes  to  an  extent  that  made 
Mrs.  Kennedy  glance  uneasily  at  Elsie's  pho- 
tograph, as  if  it  might  betray  this  lapse  from 
discipline  to  that  stern  young  judge  of  con- 
versational ethics.  When  he  rose  to  go,  they 
said  charming  things  to  each  other,  with  stately 
little  inclinations  of  the  head  to  mark  the  com- 
pliment paid. 

"  And  you  must  let  me  congratulate 
you  on  the  prospect  of  regaining  your  daugh- 
ter," he  said  at  the  door.  "  It  must  make 
you  very  happy." 

"  Indeed  it  does,"  assented  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy. When  he  had  gone,  she  picked  up  the 
photograph  and  dusted  it  very  tenderly.  Then 
she  put  out  the  four  lights  and  went  up  to  bed 
with  a  book  under  her  arm. 

"  Any  little  excitement  makes  an  old 
person  lose  her  sleep,"  she  mused,  as  she 
propped  herself  up  in  bed  to  read.  "  Dr. 
Deane  is  really  very  cultivated.  I  don't  know 
when  I  have  enjoyed  any  one  more."  She 
stared  thoughtfully  into  space,  with  her  finger 

[31] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

in  her  book,  till  twelve  o'clock  startled  her  back 
to  the  duty  of  sleep. 

Elsie  came  on  Tuesday  afternoon,  her 
hair  done  in  a  new  way,  her  accent  a  little  al- 
tered, her  clothes  indescribably  changed. 

'*  They  wanted  me  to  stay  another 
week,  and  I  was  dying  to,  but  it  didn't  seem 
right  to  leave  you  alone  any  longer,"  she  ex- 
plained. "  What  have  you  done  to  the  cur- 
tains? They  look  so  stiffy  and  funny."  She 
shook  them  out  experimentally.  "  Have  you 
been  dreadfully  doleful?"  she  asked. 

;<  Why,  I  missed  you,  dear,  of  course," 
said  her  mother;  "  but  I  went  out  a  great  deal, 
for  me.  I  really  was  quite  gay." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  people  would  be  nice  to 
you  and  invite  you,  when  they  heard  you  were 
alone,"  assented  Elsie.  "  I  wish  you  hadn't 
had  that  gown  made  till  I  came,  mother.  The 
skirt  is  last  year's  cut,  and  it  fits  so  badly — 
right  here.  See,  that  seam  ought  to  come  this 
way." 

"  Why,  I  thought  it  looked  very  well," 
said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  gazing  down  in  gentle  anx- 

[32] 


Elsie's  Return 

iety.  "  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Frith  took  a  great  deal 
of  trouble." 

"  Frith  is  an  imbecile,  if  you  don't  di- 
rect her,"  said  Elsie  decidedly.  "  And  you 
know,  mother,  you're  dreadfully  unobserving 
about  clothes.  I  hope  you  haven't  bought  your 
bonnet." 

A  look  of  guilt  came  into  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy's face,  though  she  tried  to  cover  it  with 
an  expression  of  dignity. 

"  My  clothes  are  quite  well  enough, 
dear,  for  an  elderly  lady,"  she  said.  "  Don't 
you  want  to  come  out  and  see  the  garden?  I 
have  done  a  great  deal  of  planting." 

Elsie  hesitated. 

"  Do  you  really  want  me  to?  "  she  said 
reluctantly.  "  I  know  you  do.  Well,  I'll  go. 
I'll  get  my  hat." 

She  went  up  stairs,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy 
stepped  out  into  the  spring  sunshine,  her  gown 
caught  up  in  front  and  trailing  generously  be- 
hind. Some  one  was  coming  up  the  path.  She 
went  forward  smiling  when  she  recognized  Dr. 
Deane. 

[33] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  I  was  passing,  so  I  ventured  to  in- 
trude long  enough  to  ask  about  the  daughter," 
he  said  over  her  hand.  "  I  trust  she  arrived  in 
safety." 

"  Yes,  very  well,  thank  you,"  she  an- 
swered cordially.  "  She  has  had  a  very  happy 
time." 

"  And  now  she  is  making  her  mother 
very  happy,"  he  went  on,  as  Elsie  came  down 
the  steps.  The  girl  paused,  then  sauntered  for- 
ward with  a  little  nod. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Dr.  Deane?" 
she  said.  "Are  you  admiring  our  flowers? 
Every  one  who  goes  by  stops — perfect  stran- 
gers, even.  We  are  getting  quite  vain.  Mother, 
you  ought  not  to  stand  here  in  the  sun." 

"  Don't  let  me  keep  you,"  said  Dr. 
Deane  hastily.  "  I  thought,  perhaps,  Mrs. 
Kennedy — some  night  next  week — if  you " 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  we're  very  much  tied 
up,"  said  Elsie  pleasantly.  "  When  one  has 
been  away  so  long,  you  know " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Well,  perhaps,  some 
time — but  I  mustn't  detain  you."  And  Dr. 

[34] 


Elsie's  Return 

Deane  stepped  nervously  into  a  flower  bed,  and 
tried  to  open  the  gate  the  wrong  way. 

Elsie  looked  after  him  with  lifted  eye- 
brows, 

"  How  did  the  man  come  to  call  on 
me?"  she  exclaimed.  "Dr.  Dufferin  Deane, 
of  all  people!" 

Her  mother  hesitated. 

"  I  think  it  was  on  me,  dear.  I  met 
him  at  Mrs.  Long's  one  night." 

Elsie  laughed. 

"  You  poor  thing — I  know  him.  He's 
a  horrible  old  bore.  Everybody  calls  him  Dr. 
Duffer  Deane.  He's  the  kind  that  comes  three 
times  a  week,  if  you're  civil  to  him.  I'll  get 
rid  of  him  for  you.  I  can  do  those  things  beau- 
tifully. Didn't  you  see  how  I  managed  it 
then?" 

"  I  don't  believe — it  will  be  necessary. 
He  probably  won't  come  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Kennedy,  with  a  slight  effort.  When  she  went 
to  her  own  room,  later,  Kate  was  there  with 
the  clean  clothes. 

"  The  house  will  be  a  different  place  for 

[35] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

you  now,  ma'am,  with  Miss  Elsie  back,"  said 
the  old  woman  kindly  as  she  passed  out. 

Mrs.  Kennedy's  smile  faded  as  the  door 
closed,  and  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass 
with  an  air  that  was  both  startled  and  ashamed. 

"  God  forgive  me  for  a  wicked  old 
woman !  "  she  said  solemnly. 


[36] 


Ill 

The  Real  Tragedy 

"THIS  air,  my  dear  Imogen!  Drink 
deep  draughts  of  it,  as  I  do !  Doesn't  it  expand 
your  whole  being?" 

-"It  is  very  clean  and  nice,"  assented 
the  girl,  plodding  steadily  up  the  rocky  slope. 

"  '  Clean  and  nice  ' !  It's  the  cham- 
pagne of  the  gods — iced  vitality!  How  is 
that  for  a  phrase  ?  Iced  vitality !  Fits  it  very 
well,  I  think.  Pause  a  moment  and  look  back, 
my  dear;  you  don't  want  to  miss  an  aspect  of 
this.  See  the  purple  shadows  on  those  great 
mountain  flanks — no,  mauve,  I  should  say;  a 
warm  violet.  And  the  river  like  a  silver  ribbon 
woven  through!  And  then  that  patch  of  sun 
on  the  green  of  the  valley — just  the  right  touch 
of  vivid  color.  Wonderful !  " 

The  girl  paused,  planting  her  stick  to 
steady  herself.  Her  eyes  wandered  over  the 

[37] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

wide  range  of  country  beneath  them,  then  rested 
a  moment  on  the  thin  little  gray  figure,  with 
one  arm  pointing  shoulder  high,  and  sparse 
beard  swept  to  one  side  by  the  wind. 

"  Yes;  but  we  must  not  stand  here;  we 
shall  be  chilled,"  she  said. 

He  turned  to  follow  her  with  a  laugh 
of  fond  reproach. 

"  Always  practical,  Imogen !  I  wish 
you  could  get  all  this  as  I  do.  Every  cloud 
shadow,  every  bird  song,  gives  me  a  keen  thrill 
of  delight.  The  artistic  temperament  is  a 
marvelous  blessing — even  to  a  business  man. 
Forty  years  in  an  office  can't  wholly  stifle  it, 
you  see." 

"  Yes,  it  must  be,"  was  the  somewhat 
dry  answer. 

"  Your  mother  has  it,  to  a  certain  de- 
gree. I  don't  see  why  it  was  denied  you  so 
completely.  My  dear,  I  saw  you  face  one  of 
the  most  perfect  sunsets  imaginable  for  ten  min- 
utes last  night — a  sea  of  rose  and  opal,  barred 
off  with  gold,  and,  above,  little  tender  flecks  of 
cloud,  like  silver  boats;  it  fairly  brought  tears 

[38] 


The  Real  Tragedy 

to  my  eyes.  And  yet  not  a  change  crossed  your 
face;  you  did  not  even  comment  on  it.  I  am 
not  reproaching  you,  my  dear  daughter,  but  I 
can't  help  grieving  at  what  you  miss." 

"  Oh,  I  think  I  get — enough,"  said 
Imogen,  a  little  impatiently,  her  eyebrows  meet- 
ing in  a  sharp  frown.  "  This  seems  to  be  the 
top  of  the  slope.  I  don't  believe  we  had  better 
go  on  to  the  next  to-day." 

They  had  reached  a  grassy  plateau,  held 
by  a  few  old  and  stunted  oak  trees,  all  bent  in 
the  same  direction  by  the  wind.  Mr.  Wallace 
stretched  out  his  arms  with  widespread  fingers 
and  drew  his  breath  with  a  deep  "Ah!"  of 
delight. 

"  '  The  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir 
tree,'  "  he  quoted.  "  If  I  had  been  a  poet,  I 
should  have  written  that  myself.  Not  being  a 
poet,  I  left  it  to  Mr.  Browning,  and  he  did  very 
well — very  well.  I  am  perfectly  satisfied.  See 
how  all  the  trees  are  bending  in  obeisance  to  us 
— the  invaders !  Sirs,  we  return  your  salute !  " 
He  offered  a  majestic  sweep  of  his  arm  to  the 

[39] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

stooping  trees,  then  smiled  round  at  his  daugh- 
ter; but  she  was  looking  fixedly  in  another 
direction. 

"  Perhaps  we'd  better  be  starting 
down,"  he  went  on,  with  his  unwavering  genial- 
ity. "  Your  mother  will  be  lonely  if  we  stay 
too  long." 

"  You  are  always  so  lovely  to  mother," 
said  the  girl  quickly.  She  seemed  glad  to  say 
it,  as  if  the  acknowledgment  lightened  some 
burden. 

"  One  marries  for  in  sickness  as  well  as 
for  in  health,  my  dear.  There  is  nothing  I 
hold  more  sacred  than  love.  And  when  a  pure, 
good  woman  has  given  herself  into  a  man's 
keeping,  the  least  he  can  do  is  to  surround  her 
with  his  care.  See  this  lovely  little  flower, 
Imogen — such  an  innocent,  pearly  little  thing! 
I  think  we  must  take  it  home  and  press  it — or 
no,  let  it  live  its  life  out  here,  under  the  sky, 
where  it  belongs.  That  would  be  the  kindest 
and  best." 

The  involuntary  frown  had  come  back 
to  Imogen's  face.  She  put  up  her  fingers  and 

[40] 


The  Real  Tragedy 

tried  to  smooth  it  away,  with  a  sigh  for  the 
hopelessness  of  the  task. 

On  the  way  down  they  gathered  some 
trailing  green  vines,  already  tipped  with  autumn 
red,  by  way  of  carrying  the  woods  to  Mrs. 
Wallace.  She  lifted  a  thin,  lined  face  from  the 
sofa  as  they  entered. 

"  You're  back,"  she  commented. 

*  Yes,  dear.  Such  a  beautiful  walk!  I 
wish  you  could  have  shared  it  with  us,  Fanny. 
I  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  That  is  so  exciting,  when  you  can't 
stir  yourself,"  said  the  invalid  with  a  nervous 
laugh,  discordantly  loud.  Imogen  had  picked 
up  a  card  that  was  lying  on  the  table,  and  now 
held  it  up  to  her  mother. 

"  When  did  he  come?  "  she  asked. 

"  Soon  after  you  left.  Ella  was  giving 
me  my  massage,  so  I  couldn't  see  him.  Wasn't 
it  just  my  luck !  I  don't  care  especially  for  Mr. 
Knight,  but  he  is  better  than  nobody  to  talk  to. 
The  afternoon  seemed  about  a  year  long." 
And  she  repeated  the  high,  hard  laugh,  that 
seemed  as  involuntary  as  a  cough.  It  had 

[41] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

come  with  her  invalidism,  and  was  an  automatic 
testimony  to  the  fact  that  she  was  a  Christian, 
and,  therefore,  if  she  said  sharp  things,  they 
were  to  be  understood  merely  as  jocular. 

Imogen  went  to  her  own  room,  still 
holding  the  card.  The  last  outburst  of  a 
flaming  sunset  drew  her  to  the  window  and  held 
her  till  its  fires  had  quite  died  away;  but  even 
then  her  expression  would  not  have  satisfied  her 
father — certainly  there  were  no  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  he  would  not  have  noticed  that  when 
she  turned  away,  the  card  in  her  hand  was 
broken  and  crumpled.  She  smoothed  it  out 
with  grave  care  and  put  it  in  her  top  drawer 
under  some  laces. 

When  she  went  down  to  dinner  a  man 
came  in  from  the  hotel  porch,  where  he  had 
evidently  been  watching  the  stairs. 

"  I  carried  out  my  threat,  you  see. 
Here  I  am !  "  he  said.  "  Can  you  stand  me 
for  three  or  four  days?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,"  answered  Imogen 
with  a  half  smile. 

"  We  are  more  than  happy  to  see  you, 

[42] 


The  Real  Tragedy 

Mr.  Knight."  Her  father  shook  the  young 
man's  hand  in  both  his.  "  My  daughter  does 
not  mean  to  be  uncordial.  It  is  merely  her  way 
of  expressing  herself — or  not  expressing  her- 
self." And  he  smiled  with  humorous  reproach 
at  Imogen,  who  turned  serenely  toward  the 
dining  room  without  answering. 

"  Oh,  I  can  always  count  on  you,  Mr. 
Wallace,"  said  the  young  man,  with  the  vague 
smile  of  one  who  feels  friendly,  but  has  no 
attention  to  spare  at  the  moment. 

After  dinner  Imogen  and  her  guest 
strolled  out  into  the  grounds,  silvery  with  moon- 
light, while  Mr.  Wallace,  with  gentle,  tiptoe 
haste,  went  back  to  his  wife. 

"  I  don't  see  why  they  can't  come  up 
here  and  talk,"  she  said  plaintively.  "  I 
wouldn't  interrupt  them.  Just  to  have  some- 
thing going  on  in  the  room  is  a  relief  when  you 
are  tied  to  a  sofa.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  it  is 
asking  so  very  much." 

"  I  will  go  and  suggest  it  to  them.  I 
am  sure  they  would  be  more  than  willing — 
they  probably  feared  to  disturb  you,  my  dear." 

[43] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

And  Mr.  Wallace  went  back  with  single-minded 
zeal. 

They  came  at  once.  Imogen  sat  in  a 
low  chair  near  the  open  window,  her  eyes  on 
the  dim  lines  of  the  mountains,  while  Mr. 
Knight  talked  to  her  mother — or  listened,  with 
polite  comments  at  intervals.  Imogen  some- 
times wondered  why  her  mother  kept  such  an 
exacting  record  of  her  various  callers,  for  she 
never  showed  the  slightest  interest  in  them  as 
individuals,  or  seemed  to  regard  them  as  any- 
thing but  receptacles  for  her  nervous,  eager 
talk.  Surely  it  could  not  matter  very  much 
upon  whom  this  was  poured  out.  Yet  she  had 
a  sharp  resentment  for  those  who  failed  to  come 
in  their  proper  turn.  After  an  hour  Mr. 
Knight  rose,  with  a  questioning  look  at  Imogen 
which  she  apparently  did  not  notice.  She  did 
not  even  leave  her  chair  or  offer  her  hand  in 
response  to  his  good  night. 

"  Very  nice,  manly  young  fellow.  I 
like  him,"  commented  Mr.  Wallace.  "  I  in- 
vited him  to  join  us  on  our  tramp  to-morrow. 
Dear  me,  we  shall  sleep  without  rocking  to- 

[44] 


The  Real  Tragedy 
night,   we  mountaineers.     I   could  begin   this 


minute." 


"  Oh,  then  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to 
read  to  me,"  sighed  his  wife.  "  My  head  has 
been  aching  all  the  evening.  I  thought  he 
would  never  go.  Of  course,  if  you  would 
rather  go  to  bed " 

"  Certainly  not,  Fanny.  I  shall  love  to 
read  to  you.  I  am  never  averse  to  the  sound 
of  my  own  voice,  you  know."  And  with  a  sly 
laugh  he  rubbed  the  sleep  out  of  his  eyes  and 
pulled  his  chair  to  the  light  with  valiant  alacrity. 

At  home  Mrs.  Wallace  was  accustomed 
to  having  several  daughters  very  much  at  her 
service;  so  Imogen's  morning  was  a  busy  one, 
and  she  did  not  see  Knight  till  they  started  for 
their  climb.  The  keen,  fresh  air,  the  freedom 
of  her  short  skirt,  the  unmistakable  meaning  of 
this  man's  presence,  sent  her  spirits  up  with  a 
bound  and  suffused  her  with  a  great  kindness. 
She  laughed  spontaneously  at  one  of  her  father's 
persistent  little  witticisms,  and  even  forgave  him 
his  elation  at  its  success.  Afterwards  she  for- 
got this,  but  she  remembered  how  he  had 

[45] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

turned  back  at  the  last  moment  to  be  sure  that 
his  wife  was  comfortable,  and  that  she  would 
not  rather  he  stayed  with  her. 

He  led  the  way  up  the  rough  ledges, 
declaiming  poems  that  honored  such  scenes,  and 
calling  for  their  admiration  at  every  new  aspect 
of  the  view  as  eagerly  as  if  he  were  responsible 
for  its  success.  Whether  he  broke  in  on  their 
talk  or  their  silences,  they  answered  him  cheer- 
fully, and  turned  obediently  as  he  pointed; 
nothing  could  really  interrupt  or  mar  the  beauty 
of  that  hour  for  them.  Imogen  once  heard 
herself  call  her  father  "  dear/'  and  she  remem- 
bered this  afterwards  with  passionate  gratitude. 
Certainly  it  was  a  happy  afternoon  for  him; 
and  the  end  came  so  swiftly,  so  utterly  without 
warning,  that  scarcely  a  second  could  have  been 
darkened.  They  were  still  beneath  him  when 
he  reached  the  top  of  the  cliff,  and  saw  him  lift 
his  arm  in  admiration  of  the  mountain  ranges 
beyond,  drawing  back  a  fatal  step.  An  instant 
later,  he  lay  somewhere  below,  in  the  shadows 
of  the  precipitous  rocks. 

"Wait  here — let  me  go,"   Knight  im- 

[46] 


The  Real  Tragedy 

plored,  but  Imogen  was  already  flying  down  the 
path.  They  did  not  find  the  terrible  thing  they 
dreaded.  He  had  fallen  on  a  merciful  strip  of 
grass,  and  might  be  still  living.  Imogen  sat 
beside  him  till  Knight  came  back  with  men  and 
a  stretcher,  then  started  to  hurry  ahead  and 
warn  her  mother.  He  caught  her  back. 

"  I  told  her,  dear;  and  she  was  wonder- 
ful. You  needn't  be  afraid  for  her."  Then 
for  the  first  time  Imogen  seemed  to  weaken  a 
little,  and  leaned  against  the  bank  to  steady  her- 
self, but  only  for  a  moment. 

Mr.  Wallace  died  the  next  afternoon, 
without  having  regained  consciousness.  When 
everything  was  attended  to,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  wait  for  the  early  morning  train, 
Imogen  slipped  out  of  the  hotel  by  a  side  door 
and  turned  toward  the  mountains.  She  had 
not  slept,  and  had  scarcely  eaten  since  the  day 
before.  It  seemed  as  though  another  moment 
inside  those  walls  would  drive  her  mad.  She 
mounted  desperately,  not  noticing  where  she 
was  going  at  first,  but  not  shrinking  when  she 
discovered.  The  grass  where  he  had  fallen 

[47] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

was  still  crushed,  and  she  stood  looking  at  it 
dry  eyed,  too  dazed  and  tired  to  feel  anything 
but  a  dreary  surprise  at  her  own  insensibility. 

Some  one  came  scrambling  down  from 
the  cliff  overhead  and  stopped  with  startled 
abruptness  on  finding  her  there.  She  looked 
up,  and  was  remotely  aware  of  a  boy  in  golf 
stockings,  who  had  lifted  his  cap  and  was  evi- 
dently planning  to  speak. 

"  I  hope  I  didn't  startle  you,"  he  said. 
"  I  was  just — did  you  know  there  was  a  man 
killed  here  yesterday?  " 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it,"  Imogen  heard  herself 
say. 

"  I  thought  I'd  come  and  see  the  place," 
he  went  on.  "  He  wasn't  at  my  hotel,  but  a 
friend  of  mine  had  met  him — said  he  was  rather 
an  old  goat ;  but  I  don't  suppose  that  made  fall- 
ing off  any  pleasanter." 

uYes;  that  is  what  the  world  would 
call  him."  She  spoke  with  sudden  bitterness. 
The  boy's  face  expressed  an  anguish  of  dismay. 

"  Oh,  did  you — know  him?"  he  stam- 
mered. 

[48] 


The  Real  Tragedy 

"No;  I  never  really  knew  him,"  she 
answered  after  a  pause.  His  flaming  color  be- 
gan to  subside,  and  he  gave  a  laugh  of  noisy 
relief. 

"  I  was  scared  for  a  moment,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "  I  thought  I'd  made  a  break.  If 
you  are  going  my  way " 

"  No,  I  shall  rest  here  for  a  while. 
Good  night." 

"  Well,  good  night." 

When  he  had  gone,  she  flung  herself 
down  in  the  grass  and  crushed  her  face  against 
her  arm.  She  was  still  sobbing  exhaustedly 
when  Knight  found  her.  He  knelt  beside  her 
and  gathered  her  into  his  arms. 

"  Dear,  dear  girl,"  he  said  brokenly. 
"  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  here.  This  terri- 
ble tragedy " 

She  drew  away  from  him  and  pressed 
both  hands  to  her  face  with  a  despairing  move- 
ment. 

"  Oh,  this  isn't  the  tragedy!  "  she  cried. 
"  This  was  just  his  death.  It  was  his  life  that 
was  the  tragedy — don't  you  understand?  He 

[49] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

did  so  long  for  sympathy,  intimacy,  and  no  one 
ever  gave  it  to  him — ever.  I  tried  to  be  a  good 
daughter;  oh,  I  did  try,  Richard!  But  it  was 
only  negative — it  was  setting  my  teeth  and  not 
being  actively  disagreeable.  I  was  always  chill- 
ing him.  He  wanted  to  share  our  lives  and 
feelings,  and  we  never  let  him  for  a  moment. 
I  couldn't!  And  yet  for  just  a  little  warmth 
and  approval  he  would " 

"  Dearest,  don't !  You  must  not  re- 
proach yourself  so.  You " 

"  Oh,  no;  it  was  inevitable.  If  he  came 
back  now,  I  should  be  just  the  same,"  she  said 
drearily.  "  He  was  a  saint  in  all  that  he  did — 
oh,  if  you  knew  his  devotion  to  mother ! — but  he 
was — ridiculous.  We  knew  it ;  every  one  knew 
it — perhaps  he  knew  it,  too.  But  he  couldn't 
face  it,  or  give  up  the  hope  of  applause.  He 
would  make  those  terrible  little  jokes,  and  al- 
most pray  that  some  one  would  laugh — and  no 
one  ever  did.  And  he  would  feel  things  that 
poets  feel,  really  feel  them — and  then,  too,  he 
was  ridiculous.  And  nobody  would  feel  them 
with  him.  All  the  time  good  and  faithful  and 

[50] 


The  Real  Tragedy 

sincere — and  all  the  time  struggling,  struggling 
for  the  little  things  that  we  throw  away  on 
anybody,  but  that  we  couldn't  give  him.  And 
always  ridiculous !  Oh,  that's  the  tragedy  that 
is  —  killing  —  me."  She  dropped  her  head 
again.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  shaking 
shoulders  and  drew  her  back  to  him,  tears  run- 
ning down  his  face. 

"  It  couldn't  be  helped,  my  poor  girl. 
We  can't  change  what  we  are.  You  mustn't 
blame  yourself." 

She  lifted  her  head  with  a  certain  fierce- 
ness. 

'There  is  just  one  thing  in  this  world 
that  will  comfort  me  for  his  life.  And  do  you 
know  what?  It  is  to  have  children  of  my  own 
who  will  grow  up  and  begin  to  bear  with  me; 
and  listen  to  me  with  obvious  patience,  because 
it's  their  duty;  and  shrink  at  my  ways,  but 
dutifully  hide  it;  and  give  me  little  forced  smiles 
when  I  wanted  a  laugh;  and  take  turns  sitting 
with  me  so  that  I  won't  feel  neglected,  all  the 
time  holding  the  door  between  us  tight  shut — 
then  I  shall  be  getting  it  back,  and  I'll  be  glad, 

[51] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

glad !  It's  the  only  way  the  burden  can  ever  be 
lightened.  Don't  you  see?  " 

He  drew  her  closer  and  kissed  her  very 
gravely. 

"  Things  work  themselves  out,  dear — 
one  way  or  another,"  he  said. 


[5*] 


IV 

The  House  to   Themselves 

EVERY  time  Edy  rocked  there  was  a 
screaking  protest  from  the  wardrobe,  and  a 
little  more  of  its  varnish  was  yielded  up.  After 
a  few  moments  she  jerked  her  chair  impatiently 
to  one  side ;  but  at  the  next  rock  she  was  brought 
up  with  a  sharp  jar,  as  the  end  of  the  rocker 
caught  under  the  side  of  the  little  white  iron 
bed.  She  jumped  up  in  exasperation,  and,  after 
studying  the  tiny  room  with  resentful  eyes,  set 
her  chair  in  the  one  spot  where  it  had  space  to 
move  freely. 

"  And  to  think  of  all  those  nice,  big 
rooms  downstairs,"  she  muttered,  stooping  for 
her  thimble.  She  hit  her  head  against  the  wash- 
stand  as  she  came  up,  and  a  half-smothered 
"  Oh,  dear!  "  burst  from  her. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  a  brisk 
voice  from  the  doorway. 

[53] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Mamma,  I'm  tired  of  having  board- 
ers all  over  our  house,"  Edy  declared.  "  Let's 
send  them  packing,  and  have  those  good,  big 
rooms  for  ourselves." 

Her  mother  smiled  as  she  laid  an  arm- 
ful of  clean  clothes  on  the  bed. 

"  Let's,"  she  agreed  cheerfully.  Edy 
smiled  back. 

"  Now,  most  people  would  have  re- 
minded me  that  we'd  have  nothing  to  live  .on, 
if  we  did,  and  that  we  ought  to  be  very  thank- 
ful for  the  old  boarders,"  she  said.  "  You're 


so  nice." 


"  Well,  I  guess  you  know  all  that,"  ad- 
mitted Mrs.  Williams.  "  I'll  finish  these  stock- 
ings if  you  like.  I've  got  my  dessert  all  made, 
and  Pauline  is  helping  with  lunch." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  declared  Edy.  "  Go 
and  rest  a  while.  What's  dessert?" 

"  Suet  pudding — and  a  mite  of  custard 
for  Miss  Anderson,  because  she  don't  eat  the 
pudding." 

Edy  frowned. 

"  Fussy  old  thing!      Couldn't  we  give 

[54] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

up  some  of  them  if  we  sell  the  farm?"  she 
added. 

"  Not  at  the  price  they  are  offer- 
ing," answered  her  mother,  turning  to  go. 
"  'Twouldn't —  Looking  for  me,  Lida?" 

"  There's  a  gentleman  down  in  the  par- 
lor, ma'm." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  a  room  vacant,"  said 
Mrs.  Williams,  half  to  herself,  lifting  cau- 
tiously inquiring  hands  to  the  neatly  waved 
gray  hair  that  rippled  across  her  forehead  from 
a  part  of  suspicious  straightness. 

Edy  finished  the  stockings  just  as  the 
lunch  gong  sounded,  and  distributed  them  on 
her  way  downstairs.  A  voluminous  woman, 
handsome  and  richly  dressed,  overtook  her  and 
laid  a  much-ringed  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Such  an  industrious  little  person,"  she 
commented,  smiling  affably.  Edy  twitched  her 
shoulder  slightly,  and  frowned  in  the  other  di- 
rection. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I've  been  busy,"  she  said  in  a 
manifestly  unwilling  voice.  She  was  spared 
any  further  strain  on  her  manners  by  Pauline, 

[ssi 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

who  came  running  up  the  basement  stairs, 
flushed  and  pretty,  putting  the  links  into  her 
shirt  cuffs,  which  had  evidently  been  turned 
back. 

"  Another  busy  girl,"  beamed  Mrs. 
Bartlett,  stretching  out  a  second  jeweled  hand. 
Pauline  met  the  overture  with  great  friendli- 
ness, and  smiled  up  at  the  somewhat  majestic 
figure. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bartlett,  what  a  lovely  new 
blouse !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Edy,  doesn't  she 
look  too  stunning?  "  But  Edy  had  escaped, 
and  was  pouring  out  tea  for  a  young  man  who 
had  taken  his  place  at  the  long  table  and  was 
calling  loudly  for  food. 

"  When  a  fellow  has  only  twenty  min- 
utes to  eat,  and  you  keep  him  waiting  nineteen, 
he  doesn't  have  the  pleasant,  reposeful  meals 
that  the  doctors  advise,"  he  was  complaining. 
Edy  brought  him  his  tea  in  unruffled  serenity. 

"  Mr.  Berry,  youVe  made  that  remark 
every  noon  for  four  years  and  seven  months," 
she  commented.  "  Why  don't  you  change  it?  " 

"  Because    I'm    always    hoping    you'll 

[56] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

think  of  something  bright  to  say  back/'  he 
returned.  "  Most  people  could  work  up  a 
very  decent  repartee  in  four  years  and  seven 
months." 

"  I've  had  other  things  to  think  about," 
Edy  answered. 

"  Oh,  do  keep  the  peace  for  one  meal, 
you  two,"  interposed  Pauline,  taking  the  head 
of  the  table.  "  Edy,  Mrs.  Bartlett  wants  her 
tea.  Oh,  Miss  Anderson,  you  don't  eat  chops; 
your  poached  eggs  will  be  up  in  a  minute.  Mr. 
Berry,  have  you  everything?  " 

"  Everything  in  sight,  thank  you.  But 
I'd  like  another  potato  if  it  isn't  extra." 

"  No,  they're  free  on  Wednesdays," 
said  Edy.  "  Where's  mamma,  Pauline?  " 

"  Why,  she  went  flying  off,  just  after 
that  man  called.  I  don't  know  what  was  the 
matter,  but  she  was  wildly  excited.  She  started 
with  two  white  waistbands  streaming  down  in 
back;  I  had  to  run  half  the  block  after  her  to 
fasten  them.  And  she  had  both  gloves  for  the 
same  hand.  All  she'd  say  was  that  she  was 
going  to  see  Uncle  Daniel." 

[57] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Dear  me,  then  it's  something  about 
law/'  commented  Edy. 

"  Well,  if  I'd  known  she  was  going  to 
call  in  a  lawyer,  I'd  have  paid  up  long  ago," 
said  Mr.  Berry,  holding  his  napkin  high  in 
front  of  him  to  fold  it.  "  No,  Miss  Edy,  you 
needn't  offer  me  cut  up  peaches  now.  Two 
minutes  ago,  I'd  have  taken  them  gratefully, 
but  now  you're  welcome  to  them  all  yourself. 
People  carrying  saucers  of  peaches  are  not  al- 
lowed on  the  Fourth  Avenue  cars." 

"  Would  you  like  some  saved  for  your 
dinner?"  Pauline  called  after  him. 

"What's  dessert?" 

"  Suet  pudding." 

"  Lots  of  raisins  in  it?  " 

"  Lots.     I  stoned  them  myself." 

"That's  good  enough.  Let  Miss  Edy 
keep  her  old  peaches."  And  the  front  door 
slammed. 

"  You  spoil  him  dreadfully,  Pauline," 
Edy  complained. 

"  Oh,  spoiling's  good  for  people,"  Pau- 
line answered  easily.  "  Miss  Anderson,  if  you 

[58] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

don't  want  peaches,  you  can  have  some  pre- 
served cherries  just  as  well  as  not." 

"  Oh,  no;  I  won't  trouble  you.  I  can 
get  along  very  well  without,"  said  Miss  An- 
derson patiently. 

"  One  never  has  to  '  get  along  without ' 
in  Mrs.  Williams's  household,"  said  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett  graciously.  "  I'm  sure  everything  is  always 
most  generous.  Ah,  Lida,  you  saved  that  eclair 
for  me?  How  very  kind!  " 

It  was  nearly  dinner  time  when  Mrs. 
Williams  came  back.  She  looked  flushed  and 
tired,  and  the  ripples  of  gray  hair  crossed  her 
forehead  at  an  unconvincing  slant,  but  there 
was  an  air  of  elation  about  her  that  roused 
clamorous  curiosity  in  her  family.  When  she 
took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  long  table,  her 
usual  sunniness  was  multiplied  into  radiance. 
The  boarders  smiled  back  at  her  sympatheti- 
cally as  they  shook  out  their  napkins.  Most 
of  them  had  been  with  her  four  and  five  years, 
and  none  less  than  two,  except  a  nice,  fresh- 
looking  boy  who  sat  by  Mr.  Berry,  and  nearly 
strangled  himself  trying  not  to  laugh  too  much. 

[59] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"Now,  Mrs.  Williams,"  began  Mr. 
Berry,  "  you  know  you're  going  to  tell  us  by 
dessert,  anyway.  Why  not  let  us  have  it  with 
the  soup  and  enjoy  it  with  you?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you?  " 
demanded  Mrs.  Williams,  with  pleasant,  el- 
derly dimples  coming  and  going  around  her 
mouth. 

"  Why  you  shot  off  this  noon  with  two 
white  waistbands  hanging  down  your  back," 
was  the  prompt  answer.  "  Excuse  me  if  they're 
things  I  ought  not  to  mention.  You  know  I 
never  had  any  sisters  to  put  me  on." 

"  Some  one  has  been  telling  on  me," 
protested  Mrs.  Williams.  "  Pauline,  I  didn't 
suppose  you'd  make  fun  of  your  old  mother  the 
minute  her  back  was  turned." 

"  Well,  she  couldn't  before  it  was 
turned,  in  this  case,"  interposed  Edy,  and  there 
was  a  general  giggle,  in  which  Mrs.  Williams 
led.  Mr.  Berry  went  back  to  the  attack. 

"  If  you  don't  tell  me  yourself,  you 
know  I'll  get  it  out  of  Miss  Edy  afterwards," 
he  said.  "  She  can't  keep  anything." 

[60] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

"  Well,  I  certainly  couldn't  keep  a 
boarding  house  with  you  in  it,"  said  Edy 
promptly,  to  the  vast  delight  of  the  others. 

"  There's  where  she  got  you,  Frank," 
some  one  applauded. 

"  Well,  I  guess  she's  safe  enough  this 
time,"  commented  Mrs.  Williams.  "  She  don't 
know  any  more  than  you  do,  and  she  isn't 
going  to  yet  a  while." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  anything,"  declared  Pau- 
line. "  Mamma  acted  just  this  way  when  some 
one  promised  us  a  Persian  kitten.  My!  We 
thought  it  was  going  to  be  a  horse  and  carriage, 
and  were  fighting  about  who  should  drive,  when 
the  miserable  thing  came  in  a  paper  box.  We 
never  forgave  it." 

"  Probably  this  time  it's  a  pug  dog," 
said  Edy. 

"  You'll  see,"  returned  their  mother 
with  a  shake  of  her  head. 

It  was  several  weeks  before  they  did 
see.  Mrs.  Williams  made  many  trips  to  Uncle 
Daniel,  and  was  increasingly  mysterious,  but 
refused  to  explain. 

[61] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

*  That  pug  dog  is  too  young  to  leave 
its  mother  yet,"  was  all  she  would  say.  "  You'll 
have  it  in  due  time — if  it  lives." 

Late  in  November,  she  threw  the  whole 
household  into  excitement  by  going  away  for  a 
couple  of  days. 

"  Your  Uncle  Daniel's  with  me,  and 
you  don't  need  to  worry,"  she  announced. 
"  Pauline,  you  can  run  the  house  as  well  as  I 


can." 


"  Going  to  bring  back  that  pug  dog, 
mamma?"  Edy  demanded. 

"  P'raps,"  she  admitted,  breaking  into 
a  broad  smile. 

The  girls  worked  hard  the  next  two 
days,  realizing  with  a  new  acuteness  how  much 
their  mother  did. 

"  It's  a  shame,"  Pauline  concluded, 
coming  up  from  the  kitchen  toward  dinner  time 
the  second  night,  and  throwing  herself  down 
on  a  lounge.  "  She  ought  not  to  have  to  slave 
so.  It's  not  fair." 

"  Oh,  if  we  didn't  have  to  keep  board- 
ers, wouldn't  it  be  blissful?"  sighed  Edy. 

[62] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

"  Think  of  having  those  big,  comfortable 
rooms  to  ourselves." 

"And  a  little  bit  of  a  dinner  table," 
added  Pauline. 

"  And  no  Mrs.  Bartlett  playing  Queen 
of  the  Boarding  House  all  over  the  place. 
Ugh!  She  does  feel  so  regal." 

"  And  no  Miss  Anderson  to  cook  spe- 
cial dishes  for  all  the  time.  I  think  she  takes 
tea  at  breakfast  just  because  nobody  else  does; 
and  I  know  that's  why  she  wants  cocoa  at  lunch. 
There  is  boiled  mutton  to-night,  and  I  was 
dying  to  forget  that  she  didn't  eat  it,  but  I  knew 
mamma  wouldn't  like  it.  She  always  says, 
*  Oh,  well,  she  don't  have  so  much  to  interest 
her.  I  guess  we  can  give  her  a  bit  of  steak.' 
Isn't  that  mamma  all  over?  " 

"  We'd  be  richer  if  it  wasn't,"  said  Edy 
despondently.  "  There  comes  Mr.  Bridges 
now;  I  can  tell  by  the  way  he  puts  his  key  in. 
He's  going  to  clear  his  throat,  put  his  hat  on 
the  second  right-hand  hook  while  he  looks  at 
himself  in  the  hat-rack  mirror  and  gives  his 
hair  two  little  pats  with  his  left  hand;  then  he's 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

going  to  march  upstairs  humming  *  The  Holy 
City.'  Oh,  dear!  He's  been  doing  that  in  our 
front  hall  every  night  for  five  years.  Why 
can't  we  live  by  ourselves?  " 

"  Children !  "  called  a  voice  from  the 
basement  stairs.  Some  one  was  heard  mount- 
ing heavily. 

"  There  she  is,"  they  cried,  jumping  up. 
Mrs.  Williams  emerged  from  the  semi-dark- 
ness, tired,  travel-marked,  the  gray  ripples  of 
her  front  hair  at  an  angle  that  defied  possibil- 
ity; but  unmistakably  triumphant. 

"Where's  the  pug  dog?"  demanded 
Edy. 

"  Come  up  to  my  room.  I've  brought 
him,"  she  answered  in  a  half  whisper. 

The  boarders  were  all  assembled  when 
the  three  came  down  again.  The  girls  looked 
flushed  and  excited,  and  Mrs.  Williams's  smile 
was  like  a  burst  of  sunlight.  They  greeted  her 
noisily,  with  sincere  warmth.  All  through  din- 
ner they  "  kept  it  up,"  as  she  would  have  said, 
and  there  was  a  general  air  of  peace  and  satis- 
faction when  the  men  pushed  back  their  chairs 


The  House  to   Themselves 

a  little  and  took  out  their  cigars.  Miss  Ander- 
son generally  left  with  marked  haste  at  this 
point,  but  to-night  even  she  was  warmed  into 
sociability,  and  pretended  not  to  notice  the  blue 
clouds  of  varying  fragrance  that  began  to  form 
in  level  drifts  below  the  droplight. 

"  Dear  me,  Miss  Edy's  got  on  the  light 
blue  waist,"  Mr.  Berry  commented,  looking 
across  at  her  approvingly.  "  I  hope  you  don't 
all  want  the  parlor  to-night,  for  I  always  pro- 
pose to  her  when  she  wears  that  blue  waist." 
The  nice  boy  beside  him  laughed  convulsively, 
and  blushed  because  he  couldn't  stop.  Edy  was 
quite  unmoved. 

"  Pity  it's  most  worn  out,"  she  said, 
with  lazy  sarcasm.  Mrs.  Bartlett  entered  in 
with  somewhat  lumbering  sprightliness. 

4  The  last  time  you  wear  it,  you  will 
have  to  accept  him,"  she  smiled. 

"  Oh,  he'd  never  forgive  me,"  said 
Edy.  "  It  would  be  a  mean  trick." 

"  It  would  that,"  agreed  Mr.  Berry 
gravely.  The  boy's  explosion  was  covered  in 
a  general  laugh  this  time,  to  his  deep  gratitude. 

[65] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

'  Well,  he  won't  have  so  many  more 
chances,"  announced  Mrs.  Williams.  Some- 
thing in  her  voice  made  them  all  turn  to  her. 
She  rose  and  leaned  two  plump  hands  on  the 
table,  smiling  down  on  them. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  began, 
"  in  the  years  we've  been  together,  youVe  been 
very  nice  to  me,  and  I've  tried  to  be  nice  to  you. 
I  don't  say  things  have  been  perfect;  I  know 
Minnie's  coffee  is  uncertain  and  sometimes  not 
what  it  should  be,  and  I  haven't  forgotten  that 
Mr.  Bridges's  closet  door  won't  shut,  though  I 
can't  seem  to  remember  to  get  it  fixed.  How- 
ever, I've  tried  to  make  you  pretty  comfortable 
on  the  whole,  and  I  hope  you'll  be  sorry  when 
I  tell  you  that  this  isn't  a  boarding  house  any 
longer.  It  will  stay  open  till  you  all  get  com- 
fortably fixed  somewheres  else,  but  after  that 
it's  my  private  home,  to  which  you're  all  wel- 
come whenever  you're  a  mind  to  come." 

There  was  a  confused  burst  of  wonder 
and  dismay  as  she  sat  down,  and  she  was  over- 
whelmed with  excited  questions.  The  explana- 
tion was  very  simple.  It  seemed  there  was 
[66] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

newly  discovered  a  good  supply  of  oil  on  the 
old  farm  in  Pennsylvania,  and  the  people  who 
had  been  trying  to  buy  it  from  her  at  a  nominal 
sum,  without  arousing  her  suspicions,  had  been 
obliged  to  pay  a  fair  price  for  their  bargain. 
She  had  been  down  for  a  final  survey  of  the 
property,  and  the  papers  were  now  drawn  up 
and  signed.  It  was  not  wealth  that  had  come 
to  them,  but  a  pleasant  degree  of  comfort. 
They  could  have  their  home  to  themselves,  and 
if  they  kept  to  a  certain  frugality,  there  would 
be  better  clothes  and  more  theaters  as  a  reward. 
Pauline  was  already  lost  in  an  absorbing  dream 
of  pink  chiffon  and  yellow  lace,  while  Edy  was 
mentally  fitting  up  Mr.  Bridges's  big,  sunny 
room  to  fit  her  own  ideas.  The  boarders  were 
congratulatory,  but  plainly  dismayed. 

"  Fate  has  been  mighty  nice  to  you,  but 
it  has  played  a  dirty  trick  on  us,"  Mr.  Berry 
summed  it  up.  "  Miss  Edy,  I'll  let  you  off  to- 
night. I'm  not  up  to  it.  Anybody  that  wants 
can  have  the  parlor." 

The  next  few  days  were  very  exciting. 
Dinner,  which  was  always  a  jovial  meal,  be- 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

came  positively  hilarious  as  the  different  mem- 
bers reported  each  night  their  experiences  in 
hunting  for  quarters.  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  the 
first  to  go,  then  Mr.  Bridges  and  the  nice  boy 
who  sat  beside  Mr.  Berry.  Gradually  quiet  de- 
scended on  the  house. 

The  first  week  of  their  freedom  went 
in  readjusting  the  house,  the  second  in  contem- 
plating the  change  with  smiles  of  satisfaction. 
The  third  Monday  morning  Edy  wandered 
rather  aimlessly  into  Pauline's  room  and  stood 
staring  into  the  sleety  rain  that  was  beating 
down  outside. 

"  Isn't  it  good  to  dawdle  around  Mon- 
day morning?"  she  said. 

"Isn't  it?"  echoed  Pauline,  throwing 
down  the  paper;  yet  there  was  a  lack  of  convic- 
tion in  both  voices. 

"  We  really  are  going  to  have  lots  of 
time  now,"  Edy  went  on  presently.  "  We  ought 
to  plan  something  regular  to  do.  I  think  one's 
a  little — restless  if  one  doesn't." 

"  Well,  of  course  we'll  sew  some,"  said 
Pauline  without  enthusiasm. 
[68] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

14  We  might  take  up  some  study." 

"  But  what's  the  good?  We  always 
did  hate  studying.  My!  Wasn't  I  glad  when 
we  had  to  leave  school."  Edy  sighed  and 
gave  in. 

"  I  know,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  really 
want  to." 

"  Children,"  said  Mrs.  Williams  from 
the  doorway,  "  Lida  has  a  headache,  and  I  told 
her  to  go  and  lie  down.  Who  will  set  the  table 
for  lunch?" 

"  Oh,  I  will,"  exclaimed  both  the  girls 
at  once. 

The  storm  lasted  all  the  afternoon,  and 
was  still  beating  against  the  windows  when  they 
sat  down  to  dinner.  Mrs.  Williams  eyed  the 
two  with  some  dissatisfaction. 

"  Seems  as  though  you  might  change 
your  waists  for  dinner,  girls,"  she  commented. 
"  Edy,  I  don't  believe  you've  even  done  your 
hair." 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  feel  worth  while, 
somehow,  when  there's  just  us,"  she  admitted, 
and  they  all  fell  into  silence.  Mrs.  Williams 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

finally  came  out  of  her  thoughts  with  a  long 
sigh. 

"  It  does  seem  mortal  quiet,"  she  re- 
marked. "  My  conscience,  don't  a  roast  of 
beef  last  nowadays !  I  don't  believe  we'll  ever 
get  this  ate  up." 

"  We  might  ask  some  people  in  to 
help,"  Edy  suggested  listlessly. 

"  Why,  let's,"  exclaimed  Pauline.  "  Ask 
some  people  to  dinner,  I  mean.  Why  can't  we, 
mamma?"  They  had  all  brightened  im- 
mensely. 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  Mrs.  Williams 
said.  "  We  can  have  Frank  Berry  in — and 
Mr.  Bridges?  All  right.  To-morrow's  iron- 
ing; say  Wednesday,  then.  Suppose  you  write 
them  notes,  Edy." 

"  And  I'll  put  on  my  storm  things  and 
mail  them,"  agreed  Pauline  enthusiastically. 

.  The  ex-boarders  accepted  joyfully. 
Word  was  sent  to  the  dressmaker  to  hurry 
on  the  three  new  gowns  that  were  well 
under  way,  and  Mrs.  Williams  bustled  happily 
about  the  kitchen  preparing  all  her  famous 

[70] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

specialties  with  hospitable  recklessness.  There 
were  flowers  in  the  drawing-room  that  night, 
and  gowns  that  trailed,  and  Mrs.  Williams's 
gray  ripples  had  been  changed  for  a  beau- 
tiful pompadour  that  matched  the  silvery 
gray  of  her  dress  even  better  than  that  of  her 
back  hair.  Yet  when  the  two  guests  arrived 
in  the  splendor  of  evening  clothes,  the  bright- 
ness seemed  suddenly  to  die  out,  and  an  un- 
locked for  constraint  fell  on  them  all.  The 
affair  which  had  seemed  so  simple  and  jolly  in 
prospect,  all  at  once  became  complicated  and 
difficult.  To  be  sitting  in  a  wide  circle  mak- 
ing conversation  with  Mr.  Bridges  and  Frank 
Berry  was  an  impossible  situation.  Edy  writhed 
under  it,  and  grew  cross  and  short,  while  Pau- 
line was  gay  with  a  visible  effort,  and  the  two 
guests  had  come  to  saying  "  do  you  not  "  and 
"  I  beg  pardon  "  in  the  torturing  stiffness  of 
the  occasion,  when  Mrs.  Williams  saved  the 
party  and  brought  them  all  to  spontaneous 
laughter  by  jumping  up  with  a  cry  of: 

"Land!     I  told  Minnie  I'd  make  the 
gravy,  and  I  clean  forgot !  " 

[71] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

It  was  all  right  after  that.  Mrs.  Will- 
iams hurried  off,  turning  back  her  skirt  as  she 
went,  and  the  rest,  relaxing  from  their  for- 
mality, moved  about  the  room  laughing  and 
disputing  and  teazing,  as  they  had  always  done. 
When  Mrs.  Williams  came  back  and  sum- 
moned them  to  the  dining  room  there  was  a 
touch  of  flour  on  her  cheek,  and  the  new  pom- 
padour had  a  slight  list  to  port,  but  the  sunny 
friendliness  of  her  smile  became  her  better  than 
any  outer  precision  could  have  done.  And  when 
she  said,  "  Boys,  it's  good  to  see  you,"  and  they 
caught  the  fragrance  of  a  perfect  turkey  float- 
ing up  the  dumb-waiter,  they  could  only  express 
their  joy  in  her  by  pulling  out  her  chair  and 
clamoring  to  sit  next  to  her. 

"Isn't  she  just  bully?"  Mr.  Berry 
sighed,  dropping  down  beside  Edy. 

"  And  isn't  it  good  to  be  back?  "  echoed 
Mr.  Bridges  from  the  other  side. 

The  dinner  was  a  brilliant  success. 
When  she  chained  up  the  front  door,  four  hila- 
rious hours  later,  Mrs.  Williams  looked  un- 
wontedly  thoughtful. 

[72] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

"  Poor  boys — it  does  seem  a  kind  of  a 
shame, "  she  said  a  little  vaguely. 

Every  year  since  their  home  had  been 
turned  into  a  boarding  house,  the  girls  had 
mourned  for  Christmas  to  themselves.  Of  all 
the  things  they  had  had  to  give  up,  this  had 
seemed  the  hardest  And  when  Mrs.  Williams 
brought  the  good  news  that  November  even- 
ing, their  first  thought  had  been  that  at  last 
they  should  have  a  home  Christmas.  A  dozen 
plans  for  celebration  had  flashed  through  their 
minds.  They  had  plotted  surprises  for  their 
mother,  and  she  had  taken  each  apart  in  turn 
and  confided  an  exciting  secret  that  was  to  be 
guarded  from  the  other.  And  holly  was  to 
shine  from  every  bracket  and  chandelier. 

They  discussed  it  daily.  Yet,  as  the 
day  drew  near,  the  glory  began  to  fade  from 
the  prospect.  Three  was  such  a  very  small 
number  for  a  Christmas  celebration!  In  the 
old  days  of  prosperity,  when  the  boys  had  been 
home,  and  the  older  sister,  there  had  always 
been  spontaneous  noise  enough  to  make  any 
holiday  a  merry  one.  But  now,  though  they 

[73] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

would  not  have  confessed  it,  each  began  a  little 
to  dread  the  quiet  Christmas  to  themselves  that 
they  had  dreamed  of  so  long.  Mrs.  Williams 
struck  from  her  list,  one  by  one,  the  different 
items  of  the  holiday  feast  she  had  planned  with 
such  delight. 

"What's  the  good?  We'd  never  eat 
them  up  in  this  world,"  she  said;  and  a  dismal 
silence  fell  upon  them.  The  news  that  Miss 
Anderson  was  in  the  parlor  came  like  a  pleasant 
event.  Mrs.  Williams  went  down  radiating 
cordiality. 

When  she  came  back,  half  an  hour 
later,  her  face  was  a  pathetic  mixture  of  doubt, 
dismay,  and  amusement. 

u  I  declare,  girls,  I  don't  know  what 
you'll  do  to  me,"  she  began.  They  looked  up 
anxiously,  and  she  plunged  ahead.  '  The  poor 
little  lady  did  seem  so  sort  of  forlorn,  and  she's 
tried  three  places  since  she's  been  here,  and  she 
hadn't  anybody  to  spend  Christmas  with.  And 
before  I  knew  it,  I  asked  her  to  Christmas  din- 
ner. Yes,  I  did!"  And  she  looked  appeal- 
ingly  from  one  stern  young  judge  to  the  other. 

[74] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

"  It  wasn't  fair  to  you  girls,  and  I'm  sure  I 
didn't  mean  to;  it  just  came  out  somehow  be- 
fore I  knew  it." 

"Well,"  said  Edy  slowly,  "I  don't 
know  that  I  really — mind."  The  other  two 
were  visibly  relieved. 

"  Well,  I  don't,"  said  Pauline  briskly. 
"  And  see  here,  mamma,  since  we  won't  be 
alone  anyway,  why  not  ask  Mrs.  Bartlett,  too? 
I  met  her  yesterday,  and  she  hates  it  where  she 
is.  And  she's  real  sweet  and  nice,  always." 
They  both  looked  rather  eagerly  at  Edy. 

"All  right,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "I 
don't  mind  her.  And  see  here — we'll  have  the 
whole  day  to  be  by  ourselves — why  not  have 
some  of  the  others,  too  ?  I'll  tell  you — let's  ask 
them  all!  Let's  give  a  Christmas  dinner 
party!" 

"  Oh,  jolly!  "  exclaimed  Pauline.  Mrs. 
Williams's  face  was  beaming  as  it  had  not 
beamed  for  weeks. 

'*  Then  there'll  be  some  sense  getting 
up  a  good  dinner,"  she  said.  "  I  declare,  I  did 
just  hate  to  order  an  eight-pound  turkey.  I 

[75] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

haven't  bought  less  than  a  sixteen  pounder  in 
twenty  years.  Now,  girls,  you  mustn't  talk  if 
you're  going  to  stay  here.  I've  got  to  make 
out  my  list." 

Christmas  night  all  the  leaves  were 
back  in  the  table,  for  not  one  of  the  accustomed 
faces  was  missing.  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  regal  in 
satin  and  lace,  and  praised  and  admired  every 
one  into  a  glow  of  good  feeling.  Miss  Ander- 
son was  almost  noisy,  and  when  Lida  brought 
her  her  little  special  dish  of  gravy  without 
giblets,  she  was  so  touched  that  she  nearly  wept. 
Mr.  Berry  kept  the  nice  boy  beside  him  at  the 
point  of  strangulation  from  laughter,  and  all 
ate  with  a  keenness  of  appreciation  that  told 
how  they  had  been  faring  during  these  home- 
less weeks. 

"  I  declare,  it's  worth  while  having  a 
dinner  for  you  people,"  Mrs.  Williams  ex- 
claimed, as  a  tiny,  fading  mound  of  her  home- 
made ice  cream  was  borne  away.  "  It  don't 
seem  worth  while  getting  up  good  things  for 
us  three  alone." 

"  Well,  any  time  you  want  us — "  sug- 

[76] 


The  House  to   Themselves 

gested  Mr.  Bridges.  They  all  paused  at  that. 
Mr.  Berry  put  down  his  coffee  cup  and  looked 
at  her  eagerly. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Williams,  take  us  back!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Williams!"  echoed  Miss 
Anderson  and  Mrs.  Bartlett.  They  all  joined 
in,  stretching  out  their  hands  to  her,  laughing 
but  excited: 

"Take  us  back!" 

"But,  land  sakes,  where'd  I  put  you?" 
she  protested.  "  We're  using  the  rooms 
you " 

"  Mrs.  Williams,"  said  Mr.  Berry  sol- 
emnly, "  I  will  take  the  littlest,  coldest,  meanest 
north  hall  bedroom  you  can  scrape  up,  if  you'll 
just  let  me  come !  " 

"And  I'll  go  on  the  top  floor  with 
thankfulness,"  added  Mr.  Bridges. 

"  We'll  take  anything,  anything'' 
pleaded  Miss  Anderson  and  Mrs.  Bartlett. 
"  Just  let  us  come."  Mrs.  Williams  looked  at 
Pauline,  and  then  they  both  turned  shining  eyes 
to  Edy. 

[77] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  We  don't  really  need  that  sewing 
room  at  the  back,"  she  said,  looking  away. 

"  Nor  the  spare  room,  either,"  added 
Pauline  joyfully.  "  And  we  can  keep  another 
girl." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Williams!"  they  all  chor- 
used again.  She  rested  her  chin  on  her  clasped 
hands  and  dimpled  down  on  them. 

"  Well,  if  you  can  find  rooms  to  suit 
you,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  let  you  come,"  she  said. 

"Hooray!"  shouted  the  nice  boy  be- 
fore he  could  stop;  and  then  they  were  all 
crowding  around  her,  shaking  her  hands,  ra- 
diant with  satisfaction.  Mr.  Berry  turned  to 
Edy. 

"  If  ever  there  was  a  saint  on  earth!  " 
he  exclaimed.  "  I  mean  your  mother,  not  you. 
Jiminy,  but  it  will  be  good  to  be  back.  I'm  so 
grateful,  I  want  to  do  something  for  her — 
make  a  sacrifice.  Is  the  light  blue  waist  quite 
worn  out?  " 

"  Quite,"  said  Edy.  Then  their  eyes 
met,  and  an  irrepressible  laugh  escaped  her. 
"  I've  got  another,"  she  added. 

[78] 


V 

Constance  Dorothea 

THERE  really  was  not  anything  else  to 
do,  after  all  Aunt  Suzanna's  kindness — taking 
us  in  after  the  fire  and  giving  Alice  such  beau- 
tiful care  while  she  was  so  miserable. 

"  Suzanna  isn't  the  worst  possible  name; 
and  maybe  it  will  come  into  fashion  by  the  time 
baby  is  grown  up,"  said  Alice,  who  is  naturally 
optimistic.  I  had  my  doubts  of  that,  but  there 
was  really  no  help  for  it — the  dear  lady  evi- 
dently longed  for  a  namesake,  and  it  was  the 
only  return  we  could  make  her.  So  we  went 
the  whole — I  mean,  we  gave  the  baby  the  full 
Suzanna  McMoogle,  since  we  were  in  for  it, 
and  hoped  the  poor  little  soul  would  forgive  us 
later. 

When  the  next  baby  came,  we  did  not 
happen  to  have  any  girl  names  handy,  having 
been  discussing  such  titles  as  Ralph  and  Donald 

[79] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

and  Philip,  so  the  kiddie  was  simply  "  baby  " 
for  a  few  weeks.  Then,  when  we  were  com- 
fortably debating  over  Dorothea  and  Con- 
stance and  Helen,  we  were  taken  aside  and  pri- 
vately informed  that  Alice's  grandmother  was 
horribly  hurt  that  we  were  not  naming  it  after 
her.  Now  we  loved  Grandmother  Perkins  de- 
votedly, but  someway  it  had  not  occurred  to  us 
that  anyone  could  expect  anything  to  be  named 
Luella.  We  wrestled  long  with  the  subject,  but 
Alice's  heart  was  tender,  and  Luella  finally  won 
out.  And  I  will  admit  that  the  old  lady's  joy 
was  touching. 

We  had  plenty  of  feminine  names  ready 
when  the  third  appeared,  but  Alice,  poor  girl, 
was  so  ill  for  a  week  or  two  that  we  did  not 
give  the  matter  a  thought;  though  I  admit  an 
awful  sinking  came  over  me  when  my  Aunt 
Effie  summoned  me  by  telephone. 

"We  won't!  That's  settled,"  I  said 
between  my  teeth  as  I  rang  at  her  imposing 
front  door. 

Aunt  Effie  came  straight  to  the  point. 

"  See  here,"  she  began,  settling  herself 
[80] 


Constance  Dorothea 

with  a  brisk  rustle  of  silk,  "  what  are  you  going 
to  name  that  new  child?  " 

"  Dorothea,"  said  I.  She  paid  no 
earthly  attention  either  to  the  assertion  or  to 
my  tone. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  she  went  on,  "  the 
way  you  take  all  your  names  from  Alice's  side 
of  the  family.  Your  own  side  has  some  claims, 
I  should  think.  Now,  I  haven't  any  children, 
but  I  can't  take  much  interest  in  a  Suzanna  or 
a  Luella.  And  I  should  like  to  take  an  interest 
in  one  of  your  children."  She  paused  impres- 
sively. "  Give  her  my  name,  and  I  will  see  that 
she  doesn't  lack  for  advantages,"  she  con- 
cluded. "  School,  college,  society — everything 
I  would  do  for  a  daughter  of  my  own.  And 
there  is  some  sense  in  a  pretty  little  name  like 
Effie.  Go  home  and  talk  it  over  with  Alice." 

Well,  of  course,  there  was  no  real  ques- 
tion as  to  our  duty,  after  we  had  relieved  our 
feelings  by  vowing  nothing  should  persuade  us. 
We  were  poor,  and  we  could  not  deny  the  child 
the  prospect  of  such  advantages. 

u  We  can  name  the  next  Eleanor," 
[81] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Alice  suggested,  trying  bravely  to  be  cheerful 
about  it. 

"There  won't  be  any  next,"  I  said 
firmly. 

Nineteen  months  later  the  doctor  made 
the  somewhat  trite  announcement:  "  A  splendid 
little  girl."  Alice  looked  feebly  up  at  me  as  I 
bent  over  her. 

"  Go  and  get  a  clergyman,"  she  mur- 
mured. I  was  horribly  frightened. 

"Why,  you're  all  right,  dear!  You're 
coming  through  splendidly!"  I  stammered. 
She  gave  her  head  a  weak  little  shake. 

"  No — I  mean,  to  name  the  baby — 
quick,"  she  murmured.  My  circulation  started 
up  again,  and  I  departed  light-heartedly  in 
search  of  the  Reverend  Dr.  Hoyt.  And  that 
child  was  formally  christened  Constance  Doro- 
thea before  she  had  her  first  square  meal.  We 
would  have  given  her  Helen  and  Rose  and 
Eleanor,  too,  if  we  had  had  the  courage  of 
our  desires. 

It  seemed  almost  too  good  to  be  true 
— not  to  have  to  apologize  and  explain  when 

[82] 


Constance  Dorothea 

we  were  asked  the  new  baby's  name.  We  had 
always  congratulated  ourselves  on  not  boring 
others  with  the  subject  of  our  children,  but  1 
now  began  to  have  a  small  suspicion  as  to  the 
true  cause  of  our  restraint.  There  is  no  deny- 
ing that  we  dragged  in  Constance  Dorothea  at 
every  opening,  without  a  scruple.  And  she 
proved  as  pretty  as  her  name  when  her  features 
had  set  in.  She  was  a  real  show  child  in  every 
respect,  bless  her. 

It  was  when  she  was  about  a  year  old 
that  Alice  came  in  one  day  with  a  piece  of  fam- 
ily news. 

"  Cousin  Hermione  is  coming  East," 
she  announced.  "She  is  going  to  spend  the 
winter  with  Aunt  Suzanna."  I  had  heard  of 
Cousin  Hermione  before,  but  the  name  struck 
ominously  on  my  ears. 

"  Thank  goodness,  Constance  Dorothea 
has  got  her  name  nailed  on !  "  I  exclaimed. 
Alice  laughed. 

"  Oh,  I  should  not  have  consented  to 
Hermione  for  any  reason !  "  she  asserted. 

"Rather  not!"  I  agreed;  but  still  I 
[83] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

felt  a  vague  uneasiness.  The  next  day  I  bought 
the  baby  a  silver  porringer  and  had  her  full 
name,  Constance  Dorothea,  engraved  on  it  at 
great  expense.  It  seemed  to  make  things  more 
assured. 

Cousin  Hermione  was  a  little  dried-up 
person,  very  prim  and  reserved,  her  shabbiness 
brushed  and  mended  into  a  dim  gentility,  who 
talked  with  the  corners  of  her  mouth  held 
tightly  together  and  shook  hands  distantly  with 
the  babies  when  introduced.  She  seemed  to 
consider  conversation  as  an  instrument  for  pre- 
venting familiarity,  and  I  would  gladly  have 
followed  the  frank  retreat  of  my  three  daugh- 
ters if  the  laws  of  hospitality  and  Alice's  firm 
eye  had  not  held  me.  Then  Constance  Doro- 
thea woke  up  audibly  and  was  brought  in  as 
soon  as  she  could  be  whisked  into  a  clean  dress. 
She  was  not  a  shy  young  person  and  she  stared 
earnestly  at  her  new  relative,  then  broke  into 
an  enthusiastic  smile  and  called  a  greeting  in 
her  own  language,  for  which  the  nearest  trans- 
lation would  be : 

"  Hello,  old  girl !  Bully  for  you !  "  It 
[84] 


Constance  Dorothea 

seemed  to  me  that  the  tight  corners  of  Cousin 
Hermione's  lips  showed  a  faint  quiver. 

"  She  has  never  walked  alone  yet,  but 
she  can  stand,"  said  Alice,  putting  the  baby 
down  on  her  two  little  square  moccasins.  Cou- 
sin Hermione,  who  sat  a  few  feet  away,  almost 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  A  healthy-looking  child,"  she  said, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  beaming  face.  How  or 
why  it  happened  no  man  might  tell,  but  at  that 
moment  Constance  Dorothea  straightened  her 
little  back,  stood  wavering  an  instant,  then 
lurched  bravely  across  the  intervening  space, 
six  full  steps  all  alone,  and  would  have  gone 
down  with  a  thud  at  Cousin  Hermione's  feet 
if  she  had  not  caught  the  little  starfish  hands  in 
a  breathless  rescue.  Alice  was  too  excited  over 
the  event  to  notice  anything  else,  but  I  took  a 
short-sighted  satisfaction  in  our  visitor's  im- 
perfectly concealed  pleasure.  I  dare  say  it  is 
flattering  to  have  a  baby  take  her  first  steps  for 
you;  anyway,  Cousin  Hermione,  stiffly  and  ner- 
vously, drew  Constance  Dorothea  into  her  lap, 
and  she  made  an  infernally  long  call.  I  don't 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

suppose  anyone  had  ever  before  sucked  her 
finger  or  jerked  her  watch  chain  or  even  butted 
her  in  the  chest. 

When  she  did  get  up  to  go,  she  stood 
looking  wistfully  at  Fatness  on  the  floor. 

"  She  has  a  look  of  my  mother,  your 
great-aunt  Hermione,  Alice,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
something  about  the  brow.  She  was  a  remark- 
able woman.  Her  mother  was  named  Her- 
mione, too — that  was  your  great-grandmother. 
It  has  always  been  one  of  our  family  names." 

"  Yes,  so  it  has,"  Alice  assented. 

"  No,  you  don't!"  I  muttered,  quite 
inaudibly — though  Alice  insisted  afterwards 
that  it  could  have  been  heard  a  block. 

"  It  has  begun,"  I  told  her,  when  the 
front  door  had  closed. 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  Baby  is  christened," 
returned  Alice. 

Cousin  Hermione  came  in  nearly  every 
day  after  that,  but  we  never  got  any  closer  to 
her.  We  could  not  very  well  chew  at  her 
knuckles  nor  pull  her  hair,  and  that  seemed  to 
be  the  only  way  to  pass  her  barriers.  She  and 
[86] 


Constance  Dorothea 

Constance  Dorothea  developed  an  intimacy 
that  delighted  Alice,  who  only  laughed  at  my 
warnings.  I  called  the  baby  "  Hermione " 
once,  just  to  put  that  young  person  on  her 
guard,  but  she,  too,  chuckled  in  my  face.  I 
was  the  prophet  without  honor. 

The  resemblance  to  great-aunt  Her- 
mione seemed  to  increase  daily  about  the  brow 
of  Constance  Dorothea.  Evidently  the  one 
great  feeling  in  the  life  of  this  little  wisp  of 
humanity  had  been  for  her  mother,  and  there 
was  a  growing  wistfulness  in  her  references  to 
the  likeness.  It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon  when 
she  made  her  first  timid  attack. 

"  All  your  children  seem  to  have  family 
names,  Alice,"  she  ventured.  "  I — I  approve 
of  that.  It  seems  fitting  to  commemorate  the 
— the  most  valued  members  of  a  family." 
Alice  in  her  blind  security  assented  to  the  gen- 
eral proposition.  "  Do  you  never  wish  you 
had — done  the  same — with  this  little  one?  " 
Cousin  Hermione  went  on,  flushing  faintly.  "  I 
had  so  hoped  that  somewhere — my  mother's 
name — Hermione " 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  Alice  sympa- 
thetically; "but  baby  has  been  christened,  you 
know.  Dr.  Hoyt  came  up  when — when  she 
was  very  little.  So,  of  course,  it  could  not  be 
changed — no  matter  how  much  we  wanted  to." 

"  Oh,  of  course!"  said  Cousin  Her- 
mione,  and  the  subject  was  apparently  closed. 
Only  I  knew  better. 

After  that,  when  she  thought  that  no 
one  was  within  earshot,  she  used  to  call  the 
baby  Hermione.  I  warned  Alice  she  ought  to 
make  a  bold  stand  and  declare  her  mind  on  the 
subject,  but  she  refused  to  see  any  danger. 

"  I  hate  to  hurt  her  feelings  unneces- 
sarily," she  explained. 

It  was  several  weeks  later  that  Cousin 
Hermione  came  in  with  an  air  of  repressed 
excitement  about  her. 

"  I  have  met  your  Dr.  Hoyt,"  she  an- 
nounced, a  tremor  in  her  precise  tones.  "  We 
stayed  after  service  this  morning  and — and  I 
was  introduced.  He  says  that  the  Church  does 
not  oppose  a  change  of  name,  if  the  reason 
seems  a  good  one." 

[88] 


Constance  Dorothea 

"  You  refer  to  the  marriage  service?'1 
I  asked,  hoping  to  divert  her. 

"  No;  it  was  in  reference  to  christening 
children,"  she  explained.  "  I  spoke  to  him 
about " 

It  was  this  moment  that  Luella,  thought- 
ful little  soul,  selected  for  her  historic  tumble 
down  the  front  stairs.  In  the  commotion  that 
followed  we  forgot  all  about  Cousin  Hermione, 
and  when  it  was  settled  that  Luella  was  only 
pretty  well  bumped,  she  took  herself  off.  I  saw 
the  stiff  little  figure  go  down  the  walk,  never 
dreaming  that  it  was  for  the  last  time.  When  the 
report  of  a  heavy  cold  explained  her  non-appear- 
ance a  few  days  later,  Alice  was  only  relieved 
that  the  hurting  of  her  feelings  was  put  off. 

"  Of  course,  I  shall  be  firm  when  it 
comes  to  the  issue,"  she  assured  me. 

"  I  don't  know — I'm  afraid  she  will 
work  us  yet,"  I  answered  worriedly. 

Cousin  Hermione's  cold  was  suddenly 
pronounced  pneumonia.  Next  thing  we  knew, 
she  was  very  low,  and  wanted  earnestly  to  speak 
with  us. 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"It's  coming!  "  I  warned  Alice  as  we 
hurried  over  to  Aunt  Suzanna's.  "  She  is  go- 
ing to  make  it  a  last  request.  If  you  had  been 
frank  in  the  first  place !  " 

"  Don't!  "  begged  Alice.  "  I— I  don't 
believe  it  is  about  the  name." 

*  You  know  it  is  I  "  I  returned. 

We  rang  the  bell  in  miserable  dejection. 
It  is  not  pleasant  to  refuse  last  requests.  After 
a  long  delay,  an  agitated  maid  opened  the  door. 
Cousin  Hermione  had  died  fifteen  minutes 
before. 

When  we  went  away,  later,  we  were 
ashamed  to  look  at  each  other,  though  Alice 
permitted  herself  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  kissed 
the  sleeping  Constance  Dorothea  in  her  crib. 

"  I  don't  know — I  don't  feel  altogether 
easy  yet,"  I  muttered,  and  was  reproved  for 
levity.  Save  in  his  own  country! 

A  few  days  later  we  were  summoned  to 
Aunt  Suzanna's.  The  poor  little  woman  had 
left  a  will,  and  we  went  tolerantly  ready  to  re- 
ceive a  coral  brooch  or  a  tree-calf  copy  of 
Emerson's  "  Essays."  Alice  was  sure  there 

[90] 


Constance  Dorothea 

would  be  some  memento  for  Constance  Doro- 
thea. 

There  was.  We  might  have  known  it. 
My  premonitions  had  not  been  for  nothing. 
Ten  thousand  dollars  in  stocks  and  bonds — 
her  treasured  all — to  go  to  Constance  Doro- 
thea, on  one  condition:  that  her  name  be 
changed  "  to  that  of  my  beloved  mother,  Her- 
mione  Small."  There  it  was,  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars; and  we  an  unprosperous  young  couple 
with  four  girls. 

"  We  won't,  we  won't !  "  we  said  to 
each  other  in  pale  dismay  on  the  way  home. 
But  we  had  not  said  it  before  the  lawyer,  and 
we  both  knew  it. 

We  went  dismally  to  the  nursery,  where 
the  baby  beamed  at  us  over  her  empty  por- 
ringer. I  picked  it  up  and  read  the  name  ex- 
pensively engraved  on  the  side. 

"  '  To  the  glory  that  was  Greece  and 
the  grandeur  that  was  Rome,'  "  I  murmured. 
Then  I  held  it  up  to  Constance  Dorothea. 
"  Wouldn't  you  rather  be  called  that  than  have 
ten  thousand  dollars?" 

[91] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Alice  held  out  a  silver  chain-purse,  un- 
usually full.  "  Choose,  baby:  which  will  you 
have?"  The  decision  did  not  take  Constance 
Dorothea  two  seconds;  she  lunged  at  the  purse 
with  both  hands.  Alice  relinquished  it  with  a 
long  sigh. 

"That  settles  you,  Hermione  Small/* 
she  said. 


[9*] 


VI 
The  Lady  from  California 

"  MRS.  NICHOLSON  is  from  Califor- 
nia," Mrs.  Burke  added  as  a  congratulatory 
supplement  to  the  general  introduction.  The 
newcomer  slipped  into  her  seat  with  eyes  mod- 
estly lowered,  as  though  disclaiming  any  special 
glory  that  the  fact  might  contain. 

"  California— that  is  where  I  want  to 
go/'  said  Mrs.  Whitehouse,  a  mature  and  awk- 
ward bride  with  a  very  bad  cold  in  her  head. 
Mr.  Turnbull,  across  the  table,  lifted  a  square 
face  of  an  elderly  red  from  a  swift  absorption 
of  soup. 

"  I  was  there  once,"  he  announced,  with 
a  relieved  push  of  his  empty  soup  plate  from 
him.  "  Nice  place — nice,  kind  people.  Only 
they  will  serve  salad  before  the  meat. 
Wretched  custom — couldn't  find  out  why  they 
did  it.  No  one  wants  roast  after  salad." 

[93] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

The  Californian,  a  thin,  worn-looking 
woman  with  a  sensitive  mouth  and  the  forehead 
of  an  idealist,  looked  up  anxiously. 

11  Why,  I  never  did  in  my  house,"  she 
protested,  "  and  none  of  my  family  did.  You 
might  find  it  now  and  then " 

"They  all  do  it,"  Mr.  Turnbull  per- 
sisted. u  I  know — there  six  weeks  and  was 
asked  out  all  the  time.  Invariable  custom  in 
California — salad  before  meat.  Wretched 
idea.  Why  do  you  suppose  they  like  it?  " 

A  faint  flush  had  replaced  the  pallid, 
flat  pink  of  premature  withering  in  Mrs.  Nich- 
olson's limp  cheeks. 

"  I  have  kept  house  there  over  twenty 
years,  and  my  mother  before  me,  and  I  am 
sure — "  she  was  beginning  in  a  distressed  voice 
when  Mrs.  Burke  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Well,  of  course,  Mrs.  Nicholson,  the 
two  years  you  have  been  away  may  have  made 
changes.  Don't  you  find  yourself  impatient  to 
go  back,  sometimes?" 

"Oh,  so  impatient!"  Mrs.  Nichol- 
son's eyes  softened  to  longing. 

[94] 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  It's  four  years  since  I  was  there,"  an- 
nounced Mr.  Turnbull  uncompromisingly. 

"  Do  you  really  think  California  fruit 
is  as  good  as  ours — except  just  in  appear- 
ance?" Mrs.  Whitehouse  asked  deprecatingly, 
looking  up  from  a  low-toned  conversation  with 
her  solemn  husband.  The  anxious  line  came 
back  into  Mrs.  Nicholson's  forehead. 

"  But  you  get  it  a  week  old  and  picked 
green,"  she  explained  conscientiously.  "  If  you 
could  have  it  right  off  the  trees,  as  we  do  in 
my  garden " 

"Well,  I  had  the  best  in  the  market 
there  and  I  thought  it  pretty  poor  stuff,"  put 
in  Mr.  Turnbull.  "  Get  better  peaches  out  of 
Delaware  than  California  ever  grew.  Nice 
people  there,  nice  place;  but  they  don't  know 
what's  what  when  it  comes  to  flavor." 

"  Well,  seasons  vary,"  said  Mrs.  Burke 
pacifically.  "  I  suppose  your  flowers  just  beat 
everything." 

"  Oh,  tell  us  about  them,"  said  the 
bride,  with  a  sigh  of  appreciation  that  ended  in 
a  sneeze.  The  handkerchief  she  clutched  from 

[95] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

the  front  of  her  blouse  brought  with  it  a  burst 
of  pink  baby  ribbon,  which  was  thrust  back 
with  embarrassed  haste. 

Mrs.  Nicholson  turned  to  her  grate- 
fully, her  eyes  alight  with  the  frail  fire  of  the 
enthusiast. 

"  Oh,  if  you  could  see  my  garden  in  the 
spring!  "  Her  evident  shyness  was  forgotten: 
heliotrope  and  oleanders  and  Banksia  roses 
bloomed  through  her  eager  talk,  trellises  of 
jasmine  vied  with  scarlet  heaps  of  pomegranate 
and  odd,  fragrant  names  new  to  their  ears. 
Even  Mr.  Turnbull,  swallowing  his  roast  beef 
as  though  some  one  held  a  stop  watch  on  his 
performance,  forebore  to  comment. 

"  My !  I'd  like  to  see  it  all,"  said  Mrs. 
Burke  comfortably.  A  flower  garden  would 
have  roused  about  as  much  sentiment  in  her  as 
a  tour  through  a  department  store  did,  but  she 
had  a  mild  energy  for  "  sights  "  of  any  sort. 
"  Though  I  suppose  it's  you  native  Califor- 
nians  that  get  the  most  out  of  it,"  she  added. 

The  happy  excitement  died  out  of  Mrs. 
Nicholson's  eyes  and  they  fell  uneasily. 

[96] 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  I — I  suppose  so,"  she  said. 

"  Being  born  in  a  place  does  seem  to 
count  curiously  with  people,"  Mrs.  Burke  went 
on.  "  I  suppose  it's  like  your  own  child;  an 
adopted  one  can't  be  just  the  same  to  you,  no 
matter  how  fond  you  are  of  it." 

Mrs.  Nicholson  seemed  absorbed  in  her 
salad,  and  the  talk  drifted  in  other  directions. 
Her  face  was  still  troubled  when  she  went  to 
her  own  room  a  little  later. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  told!  "  she 
murmured  unhappily. 

"  The  lady  from  California  seems 
homesick,"  Mrs.  Whitehouse  said  with  vacuous 
kindliness  when  Mrs.  Nicholson  had  gone. 
The  others  had  lingered  in  the  dining  room. 

Mr.  Turnbull  took  out  his  cigar  with 
an  energetic  jerk. 

"  Californians  always  are,"  he  said 
positively.  u  Burst  into  tears  at  the  thought  of 
home.  But  they  stay  on  here  in  New  York  year 
after  year,  if  you'll  notice."  And  he  jammed 
the  cigar  back  as  though  to  repress  further 
comment. 

[97] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Nicholson  can't  help  it," 
put  in  Mrs.  Burke,  smoothing  her  silken  lap 
preparatory  to  a  comfortable  crossing  of  her 
knees.  "  It's  her  daughter.  Cornelia  is  one 
of  those  big,  bossy  girls  that  always  seem  to 
have  little,  meek  mothers,  and  she's  been  drag- 
ging that  poor  lady  about  the  continent  for 
most  two  years.  Mrs.  Nicholson  can't  leave 
the  girl  to  go  about  alone — and  Cornelia  hasn't 
any  use  for  California." 

"  H'm !  I'd  like  to  see  her.  Must  be 
a  natural  curiosity,"  muttered  Mr.  Turnbull. 
"  Hope  she's  coming  here." 

"  Dearie !  "  said  Mr.  Whitehouse  with 
a  warning  glance,  and  Mrs.  Whitehouse  ner- 
vously pushed  back  a  pink  streamer  between  the 
buttons  of  her  blouse.  Then  they  went  off  to- 
gether, and  presently  Mr.  Turnbull  was  left 
alone  with  his  landlady.  He  looked  up  abruptly 
after  a  short  silence. 

"  She's  a  sick  woman,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  it's  just  a  bad  cold,"  objected 
Mrs.  Burke.  "  Brides  always  get  cold,  some- 
how." 

[98] 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  Not  Mrs.  Whitehouse — lady  from 
California."  Mrs.  Burke  rose  with  a  sigh. 

"  She's  homesick,  that's  all  that  ails  her. 
Between  you  and  me,  Mr.  Turnbull,  Pd  like  to 
do  something  to  that  big  daughter  of  hers. 
The  poor  lady  needs  her  home," 

"  Nice  place,  California,"  Mr.  Turn- 
bull  admitted  thoughtfully;  "nice,  kind  people 
— only  you  do  get  tired  of  their  lies !  " 

The  next  evening  Mrs.  Nicholson  came 
to  dinner  with  distress  clearly  written  on  her 
face,  an  open  letter  held  mechanically  in  her  left 
hand.  She  greeted  the  others  absent-mindedly 
and  took  up  her  soup  spoon,  then  laid  it  down 
with  a  small  sigh. 

"  I  guess  you  find  this  September  heat 
pretty  trying,"  said  Mrs.  Burke  kindly.  "  You 
Californians  aren't  used  to  it." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  the  humidity 
rather  than  the  heat  that  is  so  exhausting?" 
ventured  Mrs.  Whitehouse. 

Mrs.  Nicholson  lifted  vaguely  startled 
eyes,  then  collected  herself  with  another  sigh. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  mind  the  weather,"  she 

[99] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

said.  "  It  is  just — I  had  a  letter  from  my 
daughter,  and  she  thinks  we  had  better  spend 
the  winter  in  New  York.  She  wishes  me  to 
hunt  up  an  apartment  at  once.  I — I  had  rather 
planned  to  go  home  this  fall." 

Mr.  Turnbull,  who  had  been  swallow- 
ing fragments  of  bread  as  fast  as  he  could  jerk 
them  from  the  parent  slice,  glanced  up  at  her 
from  under  a  lowered  forehead  as  he  dusted 
away  the  crumbs. 

"Much  better  stay  here;  you'll  be 
vastly  more  comfortable,"  he  began.  "  Houses 
are  all  freezing  cold  out  there.  San  Francisco 
has  the  worst  climate  in  the  world,  anyway. 
Cold  gray  fog  every  morning,  howling  wind 
every  afternoon.  Most  overrated  climate  on 
earth." 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  only  at  one  time  in  the 
year,"  Mrs.  Nicholson  explained  eagerly.  "If 
you  could  see  it  in  February,  or  just  after  the 
first  rains !  And  where  I  live,  across  the  bay, 
it  is  warmer.  You  have  no  idea  how  much  I 
sit  out  in  my  garden." 

Mr.  Turnbull  shook  his  head. 
[100] 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  Fog  and  wind — have  'em  all  the  time. 
I  know.  I  was  there.  And  no  provision  for 
keeping  decently  warm.  Here  you'll  have 
some  good,  honest  snow,  but  at  least  you'll  be 
dry  and  warm  in  the  house.  Much  better 
stay."  Mrs.  Nicholson  was  evidently  too  de- 
pressed to  make  a  good  fight. 

"  There  is  so  much  gardening  to  do  in 
the  fall,"  she  said  helplessly.  "  Spring  will  be 
too  late." 

14  Well,  now,  perhaps  you  can  persuade 
your  daughter,"  comforted  Mrs.  Burke. 
"  When  do  you  expect  her?  "  Mrs.  Nicholson 
glanced  at  the  letter. 

"  The  wedding  is  next  week;  she  is 
staying  to  be  bridesmaid  for  a  friend.  I  sup- 
pose she  will  come  up  the  day  after.  She — she 
seems  to  have  quite  set  her  heart  on  an  apart- 
ment here." 

"I  should  think  snow  and  ice  would  be 
hard  on  a  person  born  in  a  tropical  climate," 
put  in  Mrs.  Whitehouse,  diving  into  her  blouse 
for  her  handkerchief;  the  burst  of  baby  ribbon 
that  followed  to-night  was  pale  blue. 

[101] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Mrs.  Nicholson's  eyes  fell  uncomfort- 
ably. Her  mouth  opened,  hesitated,  closed 
again. 

u  H'm !  Tropical  climate  !  "  muttered 
Mr.  Turnbull.  '*  Wait  till  you've  worn  your 
winter  flannels  there  in  August.  Tropical !  " 
But  the  lady  from  California  was  too  far  down 
to  protest. 

The  hunted  expression  of  the  apartment 
hunter  was  added  to  the  dejection  of  Mrs. 
Nicholson's  sensitive  face  during  the  next 
few  days.  Her  hands  looked  thin  and  sick  and 
her  frail  shoulders  seemed  daily  to  droop  closer 
together.  Mr.  Turnbull  baited  her  fiercely  at 
every  meal  on  her  beloved  topic  and  stared 
after  her  with  impatient  uneasiness  when  he  had 
driven  her  from  the  field. 

"  Why  don't  the  woman  go  home  if  she 
feels  that  way  about  it?  "  he  scolded  when  he 
was  alone  with  Mrs.  Burke.  "  Hasn't  she  a 
grain  of  spunk?  "  She  shook  her  head  dubi- 
ously. 

"  You  don't  know  Cornelia !  " 

The  seventh  night  Mrs.  Nicholson 
[102] 


The  Lady  from  California 

came  to  the  table  more  dejected  than  usual. 
Her  eyelids  showed  a  faint  red  line. 

"  House-hunting  is  pretty  hard  work," 
Mrs.  Burke  suggested  kindly.  "  I  guess  you're 
just  about  discouraged,  Mrs.  Nicholson." 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted;  "yes,  I  am.  I — 
I  found  it  to-day.  The  very  thing  Cornelia 
wants.  I  could  not  see  an  objection."  She 
sighed  heavily.  Mr.  Turnbull  jerked  restlessly 
in  his  chair,  then  shot  an  impatient  glance  at 
her  under  his  eyebrows. 

"  Isn't  there  some  one  who  needs  you 
out  there  ?  "  he  suggested.  She  did  not  brighten 
at  the  idea. 

"  Well,  my  mother  is  seventy- four,  but 
she  is  very  independent;  Cornelia  is  just  like 
her.  She  is  a  wonderful  woman — Mrs.  Mat- 
thew Martin.  I  wish  you  could  have  met  her 
when  you  were  there.  If  she  did  need  me,  of 
course — but  she  is  not  likely  to.  And  there  is 
no  one  else." 

Mrs.  Burke  led  her  on  to  talk  of  her 
mother,  which  she  did  with  a  measure  of  en- 
thusiasm. The  picture  she  drew  was  a  pleasant 

[103] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

one — a  keen,  active  old  lady,  very  much  the 
head  of  her  family,  and  humorously  belligerent 
at  any  hint  of  failing  faculties,  who  hoed  and 
raked  daily  in  her  own  garden,  and  loved  a 
lawsuit  as  other  grandmothers  love  fireside  and 
knitting. 

"  Why  not  get  her  to  send  for  you?" 
Mr.  Turnbull  asked.  "  God  knows  why  any- 
one should  prefer  to  live  there;  but  if  you  do, 
won't  she  help  you  out?  " 

"  But  she  is  not  at  all  likely  to  need 
me,"  Mrs.  Nicholson  persisted.  Evidently  the 
possibilities  of  ruse  and  stratagem  were  out  of 
her  comprehension.  Mr.  Turnbull  opened  his 
mouth  to  explain,  then,  meeting  the  clear,  gen- 
tle gaze,  the  idealistic  purity  of  the  worn  face, 
he  closed  it  again  with  a  faint  grunt. 

"  I  can  show  you  pictures  of  my  moth- 
er," she  said  when  they  rose  from  the  table. 
"And  would  you  care  to  see  my  garden?" 
There  was  an  eager  timidity  in  the  question. 
"  Cornelia  says  I  bore  people  to  death  with 
California,"  she  added  with  an  apologetic 
smile. 

[104] 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  Delighted  to  see  'em,"  said  Mr. 
Turnbull  gruffly. 

She  brought  down  an  armful,  chiefly 
amateur  views  of  a  stanch  old  lady  posed  with 
a  rake  or  seated  in  an  arbor,  and  tangled  cor- 
ners of  riotous  garden.  She  explained  with 
flushing  cheeks  which  was  the  Lady  Banksia 
rose  and  which  the  Cherokee,  and  how  the  blaz- 
ing Bougainvillaea  must  be  separated  from  other 
colors  by  adroit  masses  of  green,  and  what 
did  best  on  the  north  side  of  the  house  or  would 
not  thrive  without  the  south;  and  Mr.  Turnbull 
grew  momentarily  more  restless,  but  stayed 
with  short  sighs  and  suppressed  jerks,  held  by 
the  unconscious  pathos  of  her  home-love. 

"  You  see,  my  garden  adjoins  my  moth- 
er's and  she  looks  out  for  both  while  I  am 
away,"  she  explained;  "  so  there  is  nothing  that 
really  calls  me  home.  And  I  must  not  be  selfish 
about  it,  of  course.  A  young  girl  needs  her 
good  times." 

"Had  two  years,  hasn't  she?"  he 
asked,  seizing  the  interval  to  edge  away  from 
the  photographs,  which  Mrs.  Nicholson  was 

[105] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

spreading  out  again  as  though  for  a  second  in- 
spection. 

1  Yes ;  but  she  does  not  seem  to  get 
tired  of  it."  Tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes.  "  I 
am  really  foolishly  fond  of  my  home,"  she 
apologized. 

"Yes,  of  course;"  Mr.  Turnbull 
brought  himself  sternly  back  and  even  picked 
up  a  picture,  a  view  of  the  mother's  vine-cov- 
ered house  with  Mrs.  Martin  seated  militant 
on  the  front  porch. 

"  You  were  born  here?  "  he  asked.  She 
hesitated. 

"  No — no,  not  in  that  house.  It  was 
quite  another  house,"  she  said  nervously;  the 
light  had  left  her  face  and  she  began  to  collect 
the  pictures.  "  I  have  taken  the  refusal  of  the 
apartment  for  two  days,"  she  added  dully. 
"  Cornelia  will  be  here  day  after  to-morrow." 
Mr.  Turnbull  seemed  to  be  musing  on  the  pic- 
ture he  still  held. 

"Corner  house,"  he  said.  "What 
streets?  I  may  have  passed  it." 

She  told  him,  with  a  faint  return  of  the 
[106] 


The  Lady  from  California 

glow ;  it  seemed  that  the  neighborhood  had  spe- 
cial beauties  in  the  way  of  trees  and  gardens. 
Strangers  were  always  driven  round  that  way. 

"  You  probably  passed  it,"  she  said, 
gathering  up  her  armful.  "I  wish  I  had  a 
better  view  of  the  grape  arbor.  Do  you  know 
the  California  grapes  ?" 

"  I  know  the  red  ink  they  call  Califor- 
nia wine,"  he  began  with  energy,  but  broke  off 
at  her  look  of  dismayed  preparation  for  de- 
fense. "  Some  of  it  is  very  good,  of  course," 
he  ended  weakly.  "  Nice  place,  California. 
People  were  very  kind  to  me  there." 

"They  are  hospitable,"  she  said  grate- 
fully. "  Don't  tell  my  daughter  I  bothered  you 
with  these,"  she  added  with  her  dim  smile. 

"  No  bother  at  all,"  mutterd  Mr.  Turn- 
bull,  eagerly  making  his  escape.  He  paused  on 
the  steps  outside  to  light  his  cigar.  "  Hang  it, 
it's  not  my  business,"  he  protested,  flinging 
away  the  match.  "  If  she  can't  manage  her 
own  affairs — "  He  stumped  defiantly  down 
the  steps;  but  under  the  next  lamppost  he 
paused  and,  drawing  out  a  card,  noted  down  a 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

name  and  address.  "  Not  that  I  intend  to  in- 
terfere !  "  he  asserted.  At  the  door  of  his  club 
ten  minutes  later  he  gave  a  resentful  snort. 
"  Californians  make  me  tired !  " 

In  the  morning  Mrs.  Nicholson  did  not 
appear  at  breakfast,  and  Mrs.  Burke  brought 
news  of  a  nervous  headache. 

"  She's    just    making    herself    sick,    poor 
lady,"  was  her  pitying  comment. 

"Well,  what's  she  so  silly  for?"  Mr. 
Turnbull  spoke  irascibly.  "  If  she  can't  man- 
age her  own  affairs n 

"Well,  she  is  sort  of  helpless,"  Mrs. 
Burke  conceded;  "but  that  don't  make  it  any 
easier  for  her." 

At  noon  Mrs.  Whitehouse  reported 
that  she  had  sat  an  hour  with  the  invalid. 

"  I  couldn't  read  to  her,  my  cold  is  so 
bad,  but  it  seemed  to  relieve  her  to  talk  of 
her  home,"  she  explained,  patiently  thrusting 
back  an  end  of  yellow  baby  ribbon  into  the 
seclusion  of  her  blouse. 

At  dinner  time  Mrs.  Nicholson  was 
still  too  ill  to  appear. 

[108] 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  She  seems  real  feverish,"  Mrs.  Burke 
confided.  "  I  don't  know  but  what  she  ought 
to  see  the  doctor;  but  she  won't.  She  says  she 
just  can't  help  hoping  Cornelia  has  changed  her 
mind,  and  she's  got  herself  all  upset  thinking 
about  it.  Well,  the  girl  will  be  here  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  I  really  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
for  her  to  return  to  California,"  ventured  Mrs. 
Whitehouse.  "  She  seems  to  be  homesick.  At 
least  I  thought  so,"  she  added  in  apology  under 
the  sudden  glare  Mr.  Turnbull  turned  on  her; 
but  he  made  no  comment  beyond  a  subdued 
noise  in  his  throat. 

Mounting  the  stairs  after  dinner,  Mr. 
Turnbull  passed  a  maid  coming  down  with  an 
untouched  tray  of  dinner.  The  door  of  Mrs. 
Nicholson's  room  had  been  left  ajar,  and  in* 
voluntarily  his  glance  fell  on  a  limp  form,  very 
still  under  a  white  counterpane.  The  eyes  were 
closed,  but  the  folded  hands  rested  on  a  photo- 
graph. 

"Oh,  good  Lord!"  he  muttered  sav- 
agely to  the  walls  of  his  own  room.  A  half 
[109] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

sheet  of  paper  was  lying  on  the  table,  and, 
bending  over  it,  he  began  to  write  in  pencil, 
with  many  pauses  and  erasures.  Presently  he 
thrust  the  scribbled  slip  into  his  pocket  and 
went  out. 

Mrs.  Nicholson  appeared  at  breakfast, 
white  and  wan.  She  had  a  grateful  smile  for 
Mr.  Turnbull,  remembering  the  happy  hour 
over  the  photographs,  but  he  snubbed  her  un- 
mercifully. 

"  You  wouldn't  get  days  like  this  in 
California,"  he  said,  with  a  nod  to  the  open 
window.  "  We'll  have  three  months  of  it  now. 
Better  be  glad  you're  to  stay."  She  looked  at 
him  piteously. 

"  Our  fall  is  beautiful  too,"  she  plead- 
ed. "  Oh,  I  wish  you  could  see — "  She  stopped 
as  the  unmistakable  envelope  of  a  telegram  was 
laid  beside  her  plate.  Her  frown  of  anxiety 
as  she  broke  it  open  slowly  gave  way  to  won- 
der, then  to  a  dawning  radiance  that  spread 
and  deepened  till  for  the  moment  she  looked 
like  a  tremulous  girl.  She  breathed  a  soft 
"Oh!"  of  utter  relief. 

[no] 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  Good  news?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Burke. 
She  lifted  shining  eyes. 

"  It  is  from  my  mother !  "  Her  lips 
quivered  as  she  read  it  to  them :  "  Am  perfectly 
well,  but  need  company.  You  have  been  gone 
long  enough.  Come  home  at  once." 

"Well,  I  declare !"  said  Mrs.  Burke 
in  hearty  congratulation. 

"Shall  you  go?"  inquired  Mr.  Turn- 
bull. 

"Go?"  Tears  gushed  into  her  eyes. 
With  a  broken  apology,  half  laugh,  half  sob, 
she  rose  and  hurried  from  the  room.  Mrs. 
Burke  meditated  during  the  rest  of  the  meal, 
sending  an  occasional  speculative  glance  at  Mr. 
Turnbull.  He  avoided  her  eyes,  but,  neverthe- 
less, lingered  till  they  were  alone. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Burke. 

"Well?"  was  the  defiant  answer. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  made  old  Mrs. 
Martin  wire  like  that?" 

"How  should  I  know?" 

"Well,  I  found  this  in  the  hall  this 
morning.  I  don't  know  as  I  had  any  right  to 

Cm] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

read  it."  She  held  out  a  crumpled  half  sheet 
of  paper  holding  several  lines  of  pencil  scrib- 
bling, much  scratched  and  interlined.  In  its 
final  form  it  read: 

"  Excuse  a  meddling  outsider.  Mrs. 
Nicholson's  health  imperilled  by  homesickness. 
Stays  to  oblige  daughter.  Would  advise  a  re- 
call if  possible.  Oblige  by  considering  this 
confidential.' * 


Mr.  Turnbull  thrust  it  into  his  pocket 
and  turned  away  with  a  scowl.  "  Well,  I  had 
to  have  some  peace,"  he  grumbled  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  went  out.  She  laughed. 

"  You're  real  good — I  don't  care  how 
you  put  it !  I  won't  tell  on  you." 

He  came  back  from  the  front  door. 

"  If  she  wants  to  get  off  this  afternoon, 
tell  her  I'll  see  to  her  tickets  and  berths,"  he 
suggested.  "  I  want  her  out  of  the  house ! 
That  girl  will  be  here  by  noon,  won't  she  ?  And 
if  she  needs  a  check  cashed " 

[112] 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  Oh,  you  are  real  kind!  "  she  repeated 
as  she  went  upstairs. 

Late  that  afternoon  Mr.  Turnbull 
escorted  a  radiant  woman,  followed  by  a  hand- 
some, sulky  girl,  to  the  overland  train. 

*  Though  what  on  earth  you  want  to 
go  for!   Could  be  warm  and  comfortable  here," 
he  protested  as  they  stood  together  on  the  plat- 
form. 

She  was  not  listening;  there  was  some 
struggle  going  on  that  clouded  her  brightness 
for  the  moment  and  made  her  eyes  big  and 
anxious. 

"Well,    what's    up    now?"    he    asked. 
"  Want  to  stay,  after  all?  " 

*  You  have  been  so  kind,"  she  faltered. 
"  About  the  pictures,  and  all  you  have  done  to- 
day.   I  never  could  have  got  off  without  you." 

"Well,  that's  all  right.  Guess  I've 
badgered  you  some  too.  You  native  Califor- 
nians  sort  of  rub  me " 

"  That  is  just  it,"  she  broke  in  tremu- 
lously. "  It  is  not  fair  to  take  it  all  and  not  tell 
you  " — she  had  to  clear  her  voice — "  I  am  not 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

a  native  Californian  at  all,  Mr.  Turnbull.  I 
was  born  in  Chicago,  and  we  did  not  go  there 
till  I  was  nine  years  old.  I  was  very  weak  and 
foolish  not  to  confess  it  at  once;  but  people 
won't  believe  that  you  can  love  a  place  like  a 
native — even  more  than  a  native — though  you 
did  happen  to  be  born  somewhere  else.  And 
the  place  is  so  much  to  me,  so  dear — you  don't 
know  how  hard  it  is  always  to  be  frank  about 
that !  But  I  am  so  ashamed  of  having  deceived 
you!  Will  you  tell  Mrs.  Whitehouse  and  the 
others?"  And  there  were  actual  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

Mr.  Turnbull  took  her  hand. 

"Won't  tell  a  blessed  soul,"  he  said 
severely.  "  Ought  to  be  a  native,  if  you  aren't. 
We'll  keep  that  a  secret.  .Whose  business  is  it, 
anyway?"  She  smiled  gratefully. 

"  If  it  would  not  be  too  deceitful?  "  she 
said  with  a  sigh  of  happy  relief. 

Cornelia  mounted  the  car  steps  and 
called  impatiently  to  her  mother  to  follow.  Mr. 
Turnbull  stood  below,  hat  in  hand,  as  Mrs. 
Nicholson  opened  the  window  of  her  section. 


The  Lady  from  California 

"  Good-by,"  he  said.  "  Teach  'em  not 
to  serve  salad  before  the  meat." 

"*But  they  don't!"  she  protested  ear- 
nestly as  the  train  began  to  move. 

"  Nice,  kind  people — but  they  all  do 
it,"  he  called  after  her.  There  was  a  twinkle 
under  his  eyebrows  as  he  turned  away. 


[us] 


VII 
Telling  Kate 

"  ANOTHER  package,  Mis'  Redding. 
Ye're  after  buyin'  out  the  shops,  these  days!  " 
v  "  Very  well,  Kate.  Just  put  it  in  my 
room."  Mrs.  Redding  spoke  with  mild  dig- 
nity, looking  up  from  her  account  book  with 
reproving  eyebrows,  but  a  less  martial  spirit 
than  Kate's  would  have  detected  the  underlying 
weakness.  The  round  little  withered-apple 
face  stayed  serenely  in  the  doorway. 

"  There's  a  new  baby  acrost  the  street," 
Kate  went  on.  "  Their  girl  come  over  and  told 
me  when  I  was  brushin'  down  the  steps.  She 
ain't  goin'  to  stay." 

"  But  isn't  that  rather  inconsiderate — 
to  leave  just  when  there  is  a  new  baby?  "  Mrs. 
Redding  suggested,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  end 
of  her  penholder. 

"  No,  ma'am.  I  wouldn't  stay  where 
[116] 


Telling  Kate 

there  was  childrun — not  wan  minut.  It's  three 
times  the  washin',  and  nothin'  goin'  as  it 
should.  No,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Redding  bent  over  her  accounts 
without  answering,  and  Kate  partly  withdrew, 
then  thrust  her  head  back  again. 

"  That  steak  ye  sent  up  ain't  fit  to  eat," 
she  announced.  "  It's  that  tough  ye'll  never 
be  able  to  cut  it." 

"I'm  sorry.  You  will  have  to  do  what 
you  can  with  it,  Kate,"  Mrs.  Redding  said 
without  looking  up.  "  It  is  too  late  to  get  any- 
thing else." 

"  Well,  ye  won't  be  satisfied,  that's  all," 
Kate  grumbled,  shutting  the  door.  Then  she 
opened  it  a  crack  to  add,  "  There  ain't  a  potato 
in  the  house."  Mrs.  Redding  sighed. 

"  I'll  be  out  presently,  Kate,"  she  said, 
dipping  her  pen  firmly  in  the  ink.  Neverthe- 
less, when  she  had  finished  the  accounts,  she 
dressed  for  dinner  with  comfortable  slowness, 
then  settled  down  to  a  book  before  the  fire 
without  going  near  the  kitchen.  She  had  not 
lived  under  Kate's  rule  five  years  for  nothing. 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

When  dinner  was  served,  the  steak  proved  ex- 
cellent, and  there  were  potatoes  to  spare.  She 
smiled  at  her  husband  across  the  table. 

"  This  is  the  uneatable  steak,"  she  said. 
"  Did  you  ever  know  any  one  broil  as  Kate 
does?  And  the  way  she  keeps  the  silver! 
Think  how  she  has  managed  this  entire  house 
for  us,  Harry,  for  five  years.  I  have  never 
had  a  care  since  we  were  married.  What  shall 
we  do  without  her?  "  Her  husband  looked  up 
hastily. 

"  Have  you  told  her?  " 

"  Indeed  I  haven't — don't  dare !  But  I 
must,  very  soon.  If  a  new  one  is  to  be  broken 
in — "  He  nodded  uneasily. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  admitted.  "  Couldn't 
you — write  her  a  letter?  "  They  both  laughed. 

"  It  will  be  bad  enough  to  lose  her;  but, 
oh,  the  scolding  we'll  get  first !  "  Mrs.  Red- 
ding exclaimed. 

Some  days  later  Kate  walked  without 

ceremony   into   the   sitting   room   where    Mrs. 

Redding  was  lying  on  the  couch,   and  gazed 

intently  at  the  white  muslin  curtains  with  her 

[118] 


Telling  Kate 

little  red-rimmed  eyes.  Then  she  marched  out 
again,  and  presently  returned  with  a  steplad- 
der,  which  she  planted  by  the  windows. 

"There,  now;  if  ye'll  just  take  down 
them  curtains  while  I  redd  up  my  kitchen,  I'll 
wash  'em  out  for  ye,"  she  announced.  Mrs. 
Redding  glanced  at  the  ladder  in  dismay. 

"  I — can't,  Kate.  I  don't  feel  equal  to 
it,"  she  protested,  laying  her  hands  across  her 
forehead  with  a  hypocritical  air  of  headache. 
The  tip  of  Kate's  ruddy  little  pug  nose  wrin- 
kled slightly,  but  she  made  no  comment,  and 
soon  a  subdued  puffing,  accompanied  by  a 
creaking  of  wood,  showed  that  she  was  mount- 
ing the  steps  herself.  Presently  she  spoke  from 
the  top : 

"  Ye  don't  take  exercise  enough,  Mis' 
Redding.  Ye  used  to  be  as  spry  as  a  cat  round 
the  house.  Ye're  gettin'  rale  lazy." 

Mrs.  Redding  opened  her  lips  to  speak, 
hesitated,  then  closed  them  again,  letting  her 
hand  slip  down  across  her  eyes. 

"  There's  other  parlor  curtains  in  this 
block  that  wouldn't  be  the  worse  for  washing" 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Kate  went  on.  "  Acrost  the  street  there  now 
— I  wouldn't  be  found  with  my  curtains  like 
them.  But  that's  always  the  way  when  there's 
childrun — nothin'  as  it  should  be.  They  got  a 
new  girl,  but  her  looks  don't  say  much  for  her. 
She'll  not  stay  long." 

"  But  there  have  to  be  children  in  the 
world,  Kate,"  Mrs.  Redding  faintly  protested. 

"  Well,  maybe !  "  said  Kate  dubiously, 
coming  cautiously  down  with  an  armful  of 
dusty-smelling  muslin.  "  I'm  no  hand  for  them 
myself.  Now  are  ye  aqual  to  takin'  the  pins 
outen  these  whilst  I  get  ready  for  'm?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can  do  that,"  said  her  mis- 
tress meekly. 

That  night  Mr.  Redding  found  the  sit- 
ting room  clothed  in  fresh  curtains,  and  his 
wife  slightly  feverish. 

"I  almost  told  Kate,  Harry;  and  then 
I  couldn't,"  she  told  him.  "  I  simply  hadn't 
the  courage." 

"  Why  not  wait  a  week  or  two  longer?  " 
he  weakly  suggested.  She  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  stand  it  hanging  over  me 
[120] 


Telling  Kate 

much  longer!  I'd  rather  face  the  worst  and 
have  it  done  with.  Harry,"  she  went  on,  curl- 
ing her  fingers  into  his,  "  you're  a  big,  strong 
man,  while  I  am  only  a  poor,  weak  woman — 
you  must  do  the  telling." 

"  Yes,  dear,  of  course,"  he  agreed,  with 
an  empty  show  of  heartiness.  "  Only — might 
it  not  be  simpler  just  to  break  up  housekeep- 
ing? " 

"  What  a  coward  you  are !  "  she  accused 
him. 

"  It  isn't  cowardice  to  be  afraid  of 
Kate;  that's  just  common  prudence,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

The  following  Sunday,  Mr.  Redding 
being  away,  Kate  enlivened  her  mistress's  soli- 
tary luncheon  with  the  news  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

"  That  baby  acrost  the  street,  he's  rale 
sick,"  she  announced.  "  Yes,  ma'am.  I  guess 
he  ain't  goin'  to  live — they  had  the  doctor  all 
mornin'."  Mrs.  Redding  looked  shocked. 

"Oh,  Kate,  how  dreadful!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

[121] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  it  is  so,"  Kate  affirmed, 
with  a  decorous  enjoyment  of  the  calamity,  and 
went  on  to  offer  other  neighborhood  items; 
but  Mrs.  Redding's  thoughts  kept  recurring  to 
the  sick  baby.  When  she  had  contrived  to  get 
rid  of  Kate,  the  idea  still  haunted  her — how 
frightened  they  must  be,  how  tortured  if  the 
poor  little  thing  suffered.  Finally  she  sent  Kate 
over  for  news,  and  left  her  luncheon  half  eaten 
to  wait  at  the  window  for  her  return.  The 
report  was  not  hopeful. 

Sunday  afternoon  is  not  a  good  time  to 
be  nervous  and  lonely.  Mrs.  Redding  wan- 
dered restlessly  about  the  house,  oppressed  by 
the  other  woman's  trouble.  She  could  not  get 
the  thought  out  of  her  head — all  the  waiting 
and  planning  and  suffering,  the  happiness  and 
the  hopes  and  the  little  clothes,  all  for  nothing. 
She  would  have  comforted  herself  once  with 
the  thought  there  would  be  other  children;  but 
now  her  knowledge  went  deeper,  and  she  knew 
that  the  perfection  of  this  first  planning  could 
never  come  again — the  fresh  wonder  of  it,  the 
fear  and  the  eagerness,  the  long  pondering  over 
[122] 


Telling  Kate 

names,  the  humor  of  those  first  tiny  garments. 
She  longed  with  all  her  full  heart  to  go  across 
the  street,  but  a  stranger  would  not  be  needed 
or  wanted  in  that  busy,  anxious  household. 
She  could  only  hover  about  the  windows  and 
send  Kate  for  news.  Once,  trying  to  find  dis- 
traction, she  shut  herself  in  her  room  and  took 
out  some  fine  sewing;  but  her  hands  were  not 
steady  enough.  At  dusk  she  dropped  down  in 
the  shelter  of  the  fresh  white  curtains,  and  gave 
herself  up  to  waiting.  There  was  a  light  in 
the  upper  window  across  the  street,  but  the 
shades  were  not  drawn,  and  she  could  see  fig- 
ures passing  back  and  forth,  or  standing  to- 
gether in  grave  consultation.  An  hour  later 
Kate  found  her  still  there. 

"Will  Misther  Redding  be  home  for 
dinner?  "  she  asked. 

"  No;  and  I  don't  want  any,  Kate.  Just 
give  me  some  tea." 

"  Ye're  worritin'  about  that  child," 
grumbled  Kate,  lifting  the  curtain  to  peer 
across. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Kate.  I  can't  think 
[123] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

of  anything  else.  They  seemed  so  young 
and " 

She  broke  off,  to  lean  forward.  The 
doctor,  who  had  been  standing  near  the  win- 
dow in  the  lighted  room  opposite,  started  as 
though  abruptly,  summoned  and  disappeared. 
At  the  same  instant  a  woman  hurried  past, 
almost  running.  Quick  shadows  sped  back  and 
forth  for  a  moment,  then  the  room  seemed  to 
grow  very  still.  Mrs.  Redding  pressed  her 
cold  hands  together  and  murmured  a  broken 
entreaty.  She  had  quite  forgotten  the  old  wom- 
an standing  behind  her.  After  a  long  pause 
the  nurse  appeared  at  the  windows  and  pulled 
the  shades  down  very  gently.  Mrs.  Redding 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  poor  little  soul !  "  she  sobbed. 

Kate  went  away  without  a  word.  Half 
an  hour  later  she  came  back  with  a  tray  that 
was  the  perfection  of  temptation.  She  was  very 
glum  and  stern,  and  Mrs.  Redding  ate  meekly, 
thankful  for  the  comfort,  and  not  daring  to  ask 
the  trouble.  When  the  tray  was  taken  away 
she  ventured  a  conciliating  good  night,  but  re- 


Telling  Kate 

ceived  no  reply  beyond  a  severe  sniff.  Never- 
theless, when  she  crept  wearily  up  to  bed  a 
couple  of  hours  later,  she  found  the  sheet 
turned  down  and  the  room  made  ready  for  her 
— an  unusual  attention. 

"  So  I  am  forgiven,"  she  thought,  glad 
that  the  blinds  were  closed  to  shut  out  the  house 
opposite.  "  Oh,  dear !  what  shall  I  do  without 
Kate!" 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Redding  went 
down  town  knowing  that  he  must  tell  Kate 
before  the  day  was  over.  Intelligence  offices 
flaunted  their  signs  at  him  from  every  side.  He 
peered  into  one  and  turned  away  sick  at  heart 
— dullness,  laziness,  inefficiency  seemed  written 
on  every  face.  When  he  let  himself  in  late  in 
the  afternoon,  the  sweet  and  wholesome  clean- 
ness of  his  house  filled  him  with  bitterness  for 
what  might  be  in  store.  He  passed  out  through 
the  pleasant  kitchen,  redolent  of  good  things 
to  come,  into  the  back  yard,  where  Kate  was 
taking  down  the  last  batch  of  scrupulously 
white  clothes.  He  looked  at  the  ruddy,  seamed 
face,  the  stumpy  figure  and  fierce  little  gray 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

wad  of  hair,  and  felt  his  courage  sink.  Kate 
went  on  taking  off  the  clothespins  as  he  loitered 
by  the  fence,  pretending  to  examine  a  vine,  and 
for  several  moments  nothing  was  said.  Then 
he  found  the  little  red-rimmed  eyes  fixed  on 
him. 

"  Ye'll  have  to  be  gettin'  me  some  more 
clothes-line  soon,  Misther  Redding,"  she  said. 

"Haven't  you  enough?"  he  asked 
nervously,  clutching  at  the  excuse  to  delay  the 
telling.  Kate  gathered  the  last  armful  of 
towels  and  turned  to  the  house  with  her  load. 
At  the  door  she  sent  him  a  shrewd  glance  over 
her  shoulder. 

"  Enough  for  the  family  as  it  is  at  pris- 
int,"  she  said,  and  there  was  the  glimmer  of  a 
smile  about  her  puckered  mouth.  Redding 
sprang  after  her. 

"Kate!"  he  exclaimed.  She  turned 
her  back  on  him  and  began  to  poke  violently 
at  the  fire,  but  he  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoul- 
ders. "  You're  an  old  brick!  "  he  said. 

"  Ah,  go  'long!  "  said  Kate.     "  What's 
a  house  without  childrun,  annyhow?" 
[126] 


VIII 
Something 

"  WELL,  Teddy  I  "  Mrs.  Starr's  intense 
little  face  was  impressed,  even  awed,  and  yet 
at  the  same  time  triumphant.  Mr.  Starr 
glanced  without  excitement  at  the  letter  she  was 
holding  up  across  the  breakfast  table.  His 
polite  "Well?"  betrayed  the  noncommittal 
caution  of  the  legal  mind,  though  there  was  a 
gleam  of  provisional  amusement  behind  his 
glasses  that  changed  her  triumph  to  pleading. 

"  Oh,  Teddy,  won't  you  admit,  just  this 
once,  that  it  is  at  least  queer?  You  know  how 
we  were  talking  of  Cousin  Emma  last  night, 
and  I  hadn't  even  thought  of  her  for  days  and 
weeks — and  now  here  is  a  letter  from  her.  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  that  is  mere  coinci- 
dence?" 

Mr.  Starr  appeared  to  deliberate.  "  We 
also  talked  a  good  deal  about  Mr.  Roosevelt," 
[127] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

he  observed  finally,  spreading  out  the  morning 
paper.  "  Anything  from  him?  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  be  funny — !  " 
And  his  wife  turned  disappointedly  to  the  coffee 
pot.  The  reproof  evidently  disturbed  him,  for 
presently  he  emerged  from  the  news  to  ask: 

"  What  time  of  day  was  the  letter  writ- 
ten, Lollie?"  She  met  the  advance  with  an 
eagerness  that  showed  unquenchable  hope  of  a 
convert. 

"Yesterday  morning,  dear;  the  post- 
mark says  2  P.M." 

"  Well,  then,  did  her  thought-wave  take 
eight  hours  or  so  to  get  here,  or  was  it  the  letter 
in  the  mail  that  suddenly  wigwagged  last 
night  ?" 

"  Now,  Teddy,  what  is  the  use  of  being 
tiresome  and  literal?"  Lollie  was  plaintive. 
"  I  only  claim  that  there's  something — I  don't 
pretend  to  know  how  it  works.  It  happens  too 
often  for  mere  coincidence  to  explain  it."  And 
she  began  to  read  her  letter.  A  moment  later 
he  was  interrupted  by  a  note  of  triumph. 

"  Now  will   you   be   convinced !  "    she 


Something 

cried.  "  What  were  we  saying  about  her  last 
night  ?" 

He  admitted,  with  the  reserve  of  a 
truthful  but  circumspect  witness,  that  they  had 
been  wishing  the  boy  might  go  down  to  Cousin 
Emma  for  a  week  of  country  life,  and  so  con- 
firm his  restored  health.  She  nodded  assent. 

"Exactly!     Now  listen: 

"  *  MY  DEAR  LAURA:  I  have  been 
thinking  of  you  so  much  lately.  I  have  had  a 
feeling  that  something  was  going  wrong  with 
you  or  yours,  and  was  on  the  point  of  writing  to 
you  when  a  letter  from  Aunt  Miriam  brought 
the  news  of  the  dear  boy's  illness.  I  am  so 
thankful  that  he  is  well  again.  Won't  you  send 
him  down  to  me  for  a  week  or  two  of  country 
air  ?  Tell  him  Flora  has  five  new  puppies,  and 
that ' " 

She  broke  off  to  crow  over  him. 
"What  do  you  say  to  that,  Mr.  Teddy?" 

"Why,  I  say  he  had  better  go,"  was 
the  irritatingly  calm  answer. 
[129] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

She  gave  up  the  point  with  a  sigh. 
"  Oh,  yes.  I  will  take  him  down  to-morrow. 
Will  you  have  more  coffee,  dear?  " 

"  Well,  by  Jove !  "  Mr.  Starr  was  star- 
ing at  her  with  astonished  eyes. 

"What?"  she  asked  excitedly. 

"That  is  the  queerest  thing!  " 

"  Tell  me,  dear!"  Her  unsuspecting 
delight  in  seeing  him,  for  once,  roused  should 
have  touched  him. 

"  Do  you  know,"  earnestly,  "  the  very 
moment  you  spoke,  I  was  about  to  ask  you  for 
another  cup  of  coffee?  Wasn't  that  strange? 
How  do  you  explain  it?"  Her  face  fell. 

"  I  think  you're  simply  &or-rid,"  she 
protested,  resentfully  accepting  the  cup.  "  You 
are  just  a  stupid  materialist,  blind  to  everything 
that  you  can't  feel  with  your  two  paws.  I  tell 
you,  Theodore  Starr,  the  world  is  simply  full 
of  things  that  you  will  never  know." 

"  Well,  when  some  healthy,  normal 
man  tells  me  about  them,  I  will  begin  to  listen," 
he  conceded. 

"  I  don't  believe  the  very  healthy  ever 


Something 

know  some  things,"  she  answered  with  unex- 
pected mildness.  "  Their  bodies  crowd  out 
their  souls.  I  know  things  every  day — things  I 
couldn't  prove  to  you,  and  yet  I  know  them.  If 
anything  were  wrong  with  you  or  the  boy,  I 
should  know  it  instantly — absolutely — know  it 
and  go  to  you !  "  She  was  deeply  in  earnest, 
and  her  eyes  looked  so  big  and  brown,  her  face 
so  white  and  little,  that  his  teasing  was  checked. 

"  Lollie,  my  dear,  we  could  spare  some 
of  your  soul  for  a  little  more  body,"  he  said 
worriedly. 

The  next  day  she  took  the  boy  down  to 
Cousin  Emma,  planning  happily  to  stay  a  night 
herself.  The  little  farm  had  been  a  second 
home  to  her  childhood,  as  it  was  now  to  her 
son.  Nevertheless,  at  ten  o'clock  that  night 
her  husband,  deep  in  a  book,  thought  he  heard 
the  nibble  of  a  latch-key.  Before  he  could  be 
sure,  the  door  opened  and  she  came  swiftly  in. 
Her  eyes  darted  from  him  to  his  safe  and  or- 
derly surroundings,  then  returned  with  a  smile 
that  betrayed  relief. 

"  I    came    home    after    all,"    she    an- 

[131] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

nounced;  but  her  lightness  had  a  touch  of  bra- 
vado. He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders, 
holding  her  at  arm's  length. 

"  Lollie,  you  were  going  to  stay  all 
night,1'  he  accused  her. 

"  But  the  boy  was  perfectly  happy  with 
Cousin  Emma " 

"  And  then  you  had  one  of  your  mar- 
velous intuitions:  you  FELT  that  I  was  suffer- 
ing and  in  danger,"  he  went  on  sternly.  "  So 
you  made  them  harness  up  at  all  hours " 

"  It  wasn't  late,  sweetheart."  She  tried 
to  interrupt  him  with  feminine  blandishments, 
but  he  still  held  her  off. 

"  And  you  pushed  the  train  along  with 
your  two  feet  the  entire  way,  then  came  home 
on  a  dead  run  to  save  me " 

"'And  the  dog  was  a-laffin','"  she 
broke  in.  "  If  you  don't  want  to  greet  me 
properly,  you  might  let  me  take  my  hat  off." 

He  greeted  her  properly;  but — "  Now, 
don't  you  see,  Lollie,  what  nonsense  it  all  is — 
these  psychic  messages?"  he  insisted.  She 
slipped  away  with  a  laugh. 


Something 

"Who  said  I  had  a  psychic  message? 
I  wanted  to  come  home,  and  I  did,  that's  all. 
Cousin  Emma  understood." 

"  Of  course  she  did;  she  is  worse  than 
you  are.  She  has  '  feelings  '  about  the  bread's 
rising,  and  the  train's  being  late,  and  company 
coming;  and  sometimes  her  premonitions  come 
true,  but  she  never  keeps  track  of  the  times  they 
don't !  For  your  own  sake,  Lollie,  I  want  you 
to  realize " 

"  Teddy,  I  have  a  feeling — an  intuition 
— that  you  are  going  to  lecture  for  the  next  half 
hour;  so  I  have  an  engagement  upstairs." 

She  ran  off,  incorrigibly  light-hearted 
and  elusive;  but  a  moment  later  he  heard  his 
name  called  in  quite  another  voice — a  quick, 
frightened  cry.  He  dashed  upstairs,  to  find 
his  wife  sitting,  breathless,  on  the  side  of  the 
bed  with  the  charred  remains  of  a  muslin  cur- 
tain at  her  feet. 

"Teddy!"  she  panted.  "  You  know 
we  never  light  that  gas — just  because — of  the 
curtain.  And  to  leave  it  lit — with  the  window 
open !" 

[133] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"By  Jove!  Did  I?  It  had  just 
caught?  "  He  was  looking  anxiously  for  stray 
sparks. 

4  The  draught  of  opening  the  door 
blew  it  right  in.  I  did  feel  so  helpless!  "  She 
shuddered.  "  But  it  came  down  at  the  first 
pull :  I  had  only  to  step  on  it." 

'*  There  ought  never  to  have  been  a  cur- 
tain there,  anyway,"  he  began,  gathering  up  the 
remains  "  Either  this  must  stay  down,  or  I 
shall  have  that  fixture  taken  out.  That  was 
bound  to  happen,  sooner  or —  What  is  it?" 
he  interrupted  himself,  caught  by  his  wife's 
fixed  gaze. 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  she  said  slowly, 
"  that  it  was  as  well  I  came  home !  " 

"  Oh,  come,  now — that  is  utter  non- 
sense! Don't  you  suppose  I  am  as  capable  of 
putting  out  a  blaze  as  you?  Besides — "  He 
set  forth  the  logic  of  the  case  exhaustively,  be- 
coming almost  vehement  in  his  desire  to  make 
her  see  the  falseness  of  her  position;  and  she 
heard  him  out  with  a  baffling  air  of  gentle  in- 
dulgence. 

[134] 


Something 

"  I  am  so  glad  I  came !  "  was  her  only 
comment. 

Laboriously  printed  letters  told  her 
daily  that  her  "  loving  little  son  "  was  well  and 
hoped  she  was  well,  and  for  five  days  Mrs. 
Starr  went  to  sleep  in  peace  about  him  and  got 
up  in  contentment. 

"I  am  never  uneasy  for  a  moment 
when  Cousin  Emma  has  him,"  were  her  last 
words  Saturday  night.  Six  hours  later  Mr. 
Starr  was  awakened  by  a  breathless  voice. 
There  was  just  light  enough  to  show  him  two 
big,  frightened  eyes  staring  at  him  out  of  a 
white  little  face. 

"Teddy!"  Her  hand  closed  tightly 
on  his  arm.  "  It  woke  me  up.  I  am  so  fright- 
ened. It's  the  boy !  " 

"What?  What  has  happened?"  he 
asked  bewilderedly. 

"  I  don't  know — there  is  something 
wrong.  I  am  sick  with  fright!  I  can't  stand 
it."  She  sprang  up  and  began  hurriedly  to 
dress. 

"  Now,  Laura !  "  he  began,  all  the  logi- 

[135] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

cal  remonstrance  of  the  indignant  legal  mind 
arrayed  in  his  voice.  She  put  up  one  hand  as 
though  to  check  a  child's  interruption. 

"  Find  me  a  time  table,"  she  com- 
manded, twisting  up  her  hair  with  fingers  that 
shook.  Something  in  the  face  staring  unsee- 
ingly  from  the  jnirror  turned  back  the  tide  of 
his  argument,  leaving  him  silent.  He  obeyed, 
then,  still  in  silence,  dressed  and  went  down- 
stairs, returning  presently  with  a  glass  of  milk 
and  some  biscuits. 

"  There  is  a  sort  of  milk  train  we  can 
get  in  half  an  hour,"  he  announced  drily. 
"  How  we  shall  get  up  from  the  village,  and 
how  you  will  explain  our  dropping  in  at  dawn, 
I  am  not  so  clear  about." 

She  glanced  at  him  dimly  out  of  her 
dire  preoccupation.  "  I  am  ready  now,"  was 
all  she  said.  He  insisted  on  the  milk,  and 
brought  the  biscuits  in  his  pocket. 

The  chill  of  a  bleak  March  daybreak 
was  on  the  deserted  streets  and  in  the  early  car 
that  crashed  and  jolted  down  to  the  station. 
The  one  passenger  car  of  their  train  appeared 


Something 

unprepared  for  passengers,  the  cinders  and 
orange  peel  of  its  last  trip  still  strewing  seats 
and  floor.  Their  breath  was  visible  in  the  stale, 
chill  air.  Mr.  Starr,  sunk  in  discomfort,  at 
first  maintained  the  silence  of  outraged  pa- 
tience; but  his  wife's  blank  unconsciousness  of 
him  and  his  attitude  presently  goaded  him  to 
more  active  measures. 

"  Look  here,  Lollie,"  he  began  with  a 
forced  air  of  reasonableness,  "  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  exactly  what  it  was — what  you  heard  or 
saw  or  dreamed,  to  send  you  on  this  wild-goose 
chase."  The  face  she  turned  to  him  was  so 
pitifully  haunted  that  he  was  obliged  hastily  to 
harden  himself  with  reminders  of  his  own  an- 
noyance. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you,"  she  said 
finally.  "  It  was  a  sort  of  dream,  and  yet  I 
was  awake.  There  was  some  big,  dark  danger 
just  ahead  of  him,  and  I  knew,  if  I  ran  fast 
enough,  I  could  save  him.  Then  it  all  van- 
ished, leaving  this  awful  oppression."  She 
strained  her  hands  against  her  chest.  "  Oh, 
why  does  the  train  stop  and  stop?  "  she  cried. 

[137] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

He  could  do  nothing  with  her,  or  for 
her,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  logic  and  his  com- 
mon sense,  her  state  began  presently  to  have 
an  effect  on  him.  Untoward  things  did  happen 
on  lonely  little  farms.  He  vehemently  main- 
tained that  there  was  no  more  reason  to  expect 
disaster  to-day  than  on  any  other  day;  yet  he, 
too,  grew  nervous  at  the  slowness  of  the  train, 
and  caught  himself  at  the  absurd  device  of  try- 
ing to  hurry  it  with  braced  feet.  The  biscuits 
in  his  pocket  crumbled,  forgotten.  But  for 
shame's  sake,  he  would  have  spent  the  last  half 
hour  pacing  the  aisle. 

At  the  station  they  found  a  wagon  go- 
ing in  their  direction  and  willing  to  drop  them 
at  the  farm  gate.  The  morning  down  here  was 
turning  out  sweet  and  sunny;  birds  were  call- 
ing, and  a  green  mist  lay  on  the  willows.  Mr. 
Starr  threw  off  his  depression,  and  tried  to  tease 
Laura  into  a  lighter  mood;  yet  even  he  felt  a 
tightening  in  his  throat  when  at  last  they 
jumped  down  before  Cousin  Emma's  rambling 
old  white  house.  The  wide  open  windows  and 
the  peaceful  smoke  from  the  kitchen  chimney 


Something 

spoke  reassuringly  of  morning  order  and  coffee. 
Laura  darted  through  the  gate,  then  stopped 
short. 

"  Look  at  that!  "  she  cried  joyously. 

"  That "  was  their  own  small  son,  ap- 
parently in  the  best  of  health,  high  up  in  the 
branches  of  an  apple  tree  just  ahead  of  them. 
He  turned  sharply  at  her  voice,  and  evidently 
was  moved  to  run  and  meet  her  without  the 
formality  of  first  climbing  down.  There  was 
a  dreadful  sound  of  slipping  and  clutching,  and 
a  little  body  came  crashing  toward  the  granite 
slabs  below. 

"  I've  got  him !  "  called  Mr.  Starr,  in 
answer  to  his  wife's  cry;  and  a  moment  later 
he  was  seated  smartly  on  the  granite  slabs  with 
his  son  on  top  of  him. 

"Why,  hello,  daddy!"  shouted  the 
boy,  cheerfully  ignoring  this  little  interruption 
in  his  welcome. 

"  Don't  you  climb  that  tree  again!" 
was  the  ungracious  response  as  Mr.  Starr 
slowly  picked  himself  up.  Mrs.  Starr  was  on 
her  knees  by  the  boy,  loving  and  kissing  him 

[139] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

with  passionate  little  whispers  and  murmurs. 
Then  she  lifted  wet  eyes  to  her  husband. 

"  Now,  dear,  do  you  see  why  we 
came?  "  she  asked. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Laura !  "  Mr. 
Starr's  tried  nerves  gave  away  altogether. 
"You'll  drive  me  crazy!  Don't  you  see  that 
you  startled  him  and  made  him  fall?  If  we 
had  stayed  sensibly  home  in  our  beds  he  would 
have  climbed  down  as  he  climbed  up.  How 
can  you  be  so  foolish?  " 

She  pressed  her  face  into  the  little  body 
she  held.  "  I  knew,  I  knew !  "  she  murmured 
brokenly. 

"Well,  well!"  Cousin  Emma's  hos- 
pitable voice  preceded  her  down  the  path. 
"  This  is  nice!  I  had  a  feeling  that  you  would 
be  down  to-day,  but  I  didn't  look  for  you  so 
early.  Come  right  in  and  have  some  breakfast. 
Did  the  boy  tell  you  what  a  fright  he  gave  me 
last  night?"  she  added,  after  their  greetings 
were  over.  They  stopped  short  in  the  path. 
"Walked  in  his  sleep,  the  little  tyke;  some- 
thing woke  me  just  in  time  to  find  him  in  the 
[140] 


Something 

hall,  headed  straight  for  the  stairs.  I  was 
frightened." 

Mrs.  Starr  had  flung  her  arm  about  her 
son;  but  her  eyes,  big  and  awed,  were  lifted  to 
her  husband's  face. 

"  What  time  did  it  happen?  "  he  asked 
defensively,  drawing  out  his  watch. 

"  Oh,  soon  after  I  went  to  bed.  I 
hadn't  been  asleep  long.  About  eleven,  I 
should  think." 

He  nodded  at  his  wife.  "  Just  as  you 
were  saying  that  you  felt  perfectly  comfortable 
about  him,"  he  reminded  her  with  open  satis- 
faction. She  shook  her  head  with  the  patient 
quiet  of  perfect  conviction. 

"  There's   Something !  "   she   answered. 


IX 

A  Mother  of  Four 

1  You  are  fortunate  to  find  us  alone, 
Mrs.  Merritt.  With  four  girls,  it  is  simply 
terrible — callers  underfoot  wherever  you  stir. 
You  must  know  something  about  it,  with  two 
daughters;  so  you  can  fancy  it  multiplied  by 
two.  Really,  sometimes  I  get  out  of  all 
patience — I  haven't  a  corner  of  my  house  to 
myself  on  Sundays!  But  I  realize  it  is  the 
penalty  for  having  four  lively  daughters,  and 
I  have  to  put  up  with  it." 

Mrs.  Merritt,  the  visitor,  had  a  gently 
worried  air  as  she  glanced  from  the  twins,  thin 
and  big-boned,  reading  by  the  fire,  to  pretty, 
affected  Amelie  at  the  tea-table,  and  the  apa- 
thetic Enid  furtively  watching  the  front  steps 
from  the  bay  window.  Something  in  her  ex- 
pression seemed  to  imply  a  humble  wonder  as 


A  Mother  of  Pour 

to  what  might  constitute  the  elements  of  high 
popularity,  since  her  two  dear  girls 

"  Of  course,  mine  have  their  friends," 
she  asserted;  it  was  an  admission  that  perhaps 
the  door-bell  was  not  overworked.  "  I  enjoy 
young  life,"  she  added. 

"  Oh,  yes,  in  moderation!  "  Mrs.  Bald- 
win laughed  from  the  depths  of  the  complacent 
prosperity  that  irradiated  her  handsome  white 
hair  and  active  brown  eyes,  her  pleasant  rosi- 
ness,  and  even  her  compact  stoutness,  suggesting 
strength  rather  than  weight.  "  But  since  Enid 
became  engaged,  that  means  Harry  all  the  time 
— there's  my  library  gone;  and  with  the  other 
three  filling  both  drawing-rooms  and  the  recep- 
tion room,  I  have  to  take  to  the  dining  room, 
myself!  There  they  begin,"  she  added,  as 
Enid  left  the  window  and  slipped  out  into  the 
hall,  closing  the  door  after  her.  "  Now  we 
shall  have  no  peace  until  Monday  morning. 
You  know  how  it  is !  " 

Mrs.  Merritt  seemed  depressed,  and 
soon  took  her  leave. 

The  twins,  when  they  were  left  alone  in 

[143] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

the  drawing-room,  lifted  their  heads  and  ex- 
changed long  and  solemn  looks;  then  returned 
to  their  reading  in  silence.  When  it  grew  too 
dark  by  the  fire,  they  carried  their  books  to  the 
bay  window,  but  drew  back  as  they  saw  a  pale 
and  puny  youth  with  a  retreating  chin  coming 
up  the  front  steps. 

;*  The  rush  has  begun,"  murmured 
Cora. 

"Amelie  can  have  him, "Dora  returned. 
"  Let's  fly." 

They  retreated  upstairs  and  read  peace- 
fully until  tea-time.  The  bell  did  not  ring 
again.  When  they  came  down,  Mrs.  Baldwin 
eyed  them  irritably. 

l<  Why  don't  you  ask  the  Carryl  boys  in 
to  Sunday  tea  some  time  ?  They  will  think  you 
have  forgotten  them.  And  Mr.  White  and 
that  nice  Mr.  Morton  who  lives  with  him — I 
am  afraid  you  have  offended  them  in  some  way. 
They  used  to  be  here  all  the  time." 

"  They  only  came  twice,  and  those  were 
party  calls,"  said  Dora  bluntly. 

"  My  dear,  you  have  forgotten,"  was 
[144] 


A  Mother  of  Four 

the  firm  answer.  "They  were  here  constantly. 
I  shall  send  them  a  line;  I  don't  like  to  have 
them  think  we  have  gone  back  on  them." 

"  Oh,  I — I  wouldn't,"  began  Cora,  but 
was  put  down  with  decision: 

"  When  I  need  your  advice,  Cora,  I  will 
ask  for  it.  Amelie,  dear,  you  look  tired;  I  am 
afraid  you  have  had  too  much  gayety  this  after- 


noon." 


"  Oh,  I  love  it!  It's  the  breath  of  life 
to  me,"  said  Amelie  rapturously.  The  twins 
again  exchanged  solemn  looks  and  sat  down  to 
their  tea  in  silence.  Mrs.  Baldwin  attacked 
them  peevishly  at  intervals;  she  was  cross  at 
Enid  also,  who  had  not  kept  Harry  to  supper, 
and  preserved  an  indifferent  silence  under  ques- 
tioning. "  When  I  was  your  age — !  "  was  the 
burden  of  her  speech. 

"  I  must  give  a  dance  for  you  young 
people,"  she  decided.  "You  need  livening 
up." 

"Oh,  lovely!"  exclaimed  Amelie. 

"  We  have  not  had  one  this  winter — I 
don't  know  what  I  have  been  thinking  about," 
[145] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Mrs.  Baldwin  went  on  with  returning  cheerful- 
ness. "  We  won't  ask  more  than  a  hundred. 
You  must  have  a  new  frock,  Amelie.  Enid, 
how  is  your  blue  one?  " 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  said  Enid  indifferently. 
Mrs.  Baldwin  turned  to  the  twins,  and  found 
them  looking  frankly  dismayed. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  now?  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  am  sure  I  try  to  give  you  as  good  times  as 
any  girls  in  town;  not  many  mothers  on  my  in- 
come would  do  one  half  so  much.  And  you 
both  sit  looking  as  if  you  were  going  to  execu- 
tion!" 

"  We — we  do  appreciate  it,  mother," 
wrged  Cora  unhappily. 

"  But  we  aren't  howling  successes  at 
parties,"  Dora  added. 

"  Nonsense !  You  have  partners  to 
spare."  Mrs.  Baldwin  was  plainly  angry. 
"  No  child  of  mine  was  ever  a  wallflower,  nor 
ever  will  be.  Never  let  me  hear  you  say  such 
a  thing  again.  You  would  have  twice  the  atten- 
tion if  you  weren't  always  poking  off  by  your- 
selves; and  as  it  is,  you  have  more  than  most 


A  Mother  of  Four 

girls.  You  frighten  the  men — they  think  you 
are  proud.  Show  a  little  interest  in  them  and 
see  how  pleased  they  will  be !  " 

The  twins  looked  dubious,  and  seized 
the  first  chance  to  escape.  In  their  own  room 
they  confronted  each  other  dismally. 

"  Of  course  they  will  ask  us,  in  our  own 
house;  we  won't  have  to  sit  and  sit,"  said  Cora 
with  a  sigh. 

"  But  it's  almost  worse  when  they  ask 
you  for  that  reason,"  objected  Dora. 

"  I  know !  I  feel  so  sorry  for  them, 
and  so  apologetic.  If  mother  would  only  let 
us  go  and  teach;  then  we  could  show  we  were 
really  good  for  something.  We  shouldn't  have 
to  shine  at  parties." 

"  We  shouldn't  have  to  go  to  them! 
Come  on,  let's  do  some  Latin.  I  want  to  for- 
get the  hateful  thing." 

Cora  got  down  the  books  and  drew  their 
chairs  up  to  the  student  lamp.  "  I  know  I 
shouldn't  be  such  a  stick  if  I  didn't  have  to  wear 
low  neck,"  she  said.  "  I  am  always  thinking 
about  those  awful  collar-bones,  and  trying  to 

[147] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 
hold  my   shoulders   so    as   not   to   make   them 


worse." 


"Oh,  don't  I  know!"  Dora  had 
slipped  on  a  soft  red  wrapper,  and  threw  a  blue 
one  to  her  sister.  When  they  were  curled  up  in 
their  big,  cushioned  chairs,  they  smiled  appre- 
ciatively at  each  other. 

"  Isn't  this  nicer  than  any  party  ever  in- 
vented? "  they  exclaimed.  Dora  opened  her 
books  with  energy,  but  Cora  sat  musing. 

"  I  dare  say  that  somewhere  there  are 
parties  for  our  kind,"  she  said,  finally.  "  Not 
with  silly  little  chinless  boys  or  popular  men 
who  are  always  trying  to  get  away,  but  men 
who  study  and  care  about  things — who  go  to 
Greece  and  dig  ruins,  for  instance,  or  study 
sociology,  and  think  more  about  one's  mind 
than  one's  collar-bones." 

Dora  shook  her  head.  "  But  they  don't 
go  to  parties !  " 

"  Both  Mr.  Morton  and  Mr.  White  do, 
sometimes,"  Cora  suggested.  "  They  aren't 
like  the  rest.  I  thought  that  tenement-house 
work  they  told  us  about  was  most  interesting. 


A  Mother  of  Four 

But  they  would  call  if  they  wanted  to,"  she 
added. 

The  twins  in  wrappers,  bending  over 
their  books,  had  a  certain  comeliness.  There 
was  even  an  austere  beauty  in  their  wide,  high 
foreheads,  their  fine,  straight  dark  hair,  their 
serious  gray  eyes  and  sensitive  mouths,  pensive 
but  not  without  humor  and  sweetness.  But  the 
twins  in  evening  dress,  their  unwilling  hair 
flower-crowned  and  bolstered  into  pompadours, 
their  big-boned  thinness  contrasted  with 
Amelie's  plump  curves,  their  elbows  betraying 
the  red  disks  of  serious  application,  were  quite 
another  matter,  and  they  knew  it.  The  night 
of  the  dance  they  came  downstairs  with  solemn, 
dutiful  faces,  and  lifted  submissive  eyes  to  their 
mother  for  judgment.  She  was  looking  charm- 
ingly pretty  herself,  carrying  her  thick  white 
hair  with  an  air  of  humorous  boldness,  and  her 
smiling  brown  eyes  were  younger  than  their 
gray  ones. 

"  Very  well,  twinnies !  Now  you  look 
something  like  human  girls,"  she  said  gayly. 
"  Run  and  have  a  beautiful  time.  Ah,  Amelie, 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

you  little  fairy !     They  will  all  be  on  their  knees 
to  you  to-night.     Where  is  Enid?  " 

"  Nowhere  near  dressed,  and  she  won't 
hurry,"  Amelie  explained.  "  Oh,  I  am  so  ex- 
cited, I  shall  die !  What  if  no  one  asks  me  to 
dance !  " 

"Silly!"  Mrs.  Baldwin  laughed.  "I 
am  only  afraid  of  your  dancing  yourself  to 
death.  Ah,  Mrs.  Merritt,  how  good  of  you 
to  come  with  your  dear  girls !  And  Mr.  Mer- 
ritt— this  is  better  than  I  dared  hope." 

The  rooms  filled  rapidly.  Enid,  after 
one  languid  waltz,  disappeared  with  Harry  and 
was  not  seen  again  till  supper.  Amelie  flew 
from  partner  to  partner,  pouring  streams  of 
vivacious  talk  into  patient  masculine  ears.  The 
twins  were  dutifully  taken  out  in  turn  and  un- 
failingly brought  back.  Both  Mr.  White  and 
Mr.  Morton  came,  serious  young  men  who 
danced  little,  and  looked  on  more  as  if  the  affair 
were  a  problem  in  sociology  than  an  entertain- 
ment. There  were  plenty  of  men,  for  Mrs. 
Baldwin's  entertainments  had  a  reputation  in 
the  matter  of  supper,  music,  and  floors. 
[ISO] 


A  Mother  of  Four 

"  After  you've  worked  through  the 
family,  you  can  have  a  ripping  old  time,"  Cora 
heard  one  youth  explain  to  another;  a  moment 
later  he  stood  in  front  of  her,  begging  the  honor 
of  a  waltz.  She  felt  no  resentment;  her  sym- 
pathies were  all  with  him.  She  looked  up  with 
gentle  seriousness. 

"  You  needn't,  you  know,"  she  said. 
"  Dora  and  I  don't  really  expect  it — we  under- 
stand." He  looked  so  puzzled  that  she  added: 
"  I  overheard  you  just  now,  about  *  working 
thr.ough  the  family.'  " 

He  grew  distressfully  red  and  stam- 
mered wildly.  Cora  came  at  once  to  his  rescue. 

"  Really,  it's  all  right.  We  don't  like 
parties  ourselves;  only  it  is  hard  on  mother  to 
have  such  sticks  of  daughters,  so  we  do  our  best. 
But  we  never  mind  when  people  don't  ask  us. 
Sometimes  we  almost  wish  they  wouldn't." 

The  youth  was  trying  desperately  to 
collect  himself.  "What  do  you  like,  then?" 
he  managed  to  ask. 

"  Oh,  books,  and  the  country,  and  not 
having  to  be  introduced  to  people."  She  was 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

trying  to  put  him  at  his  ease.  "  We  really  do 
like  dancing:  we  do  it  better  than  you'd  think, 
for  mother  made  us  keep  at  it.  If  only  we 
didn't  have  to  have  partners  and  think  of  things 
to  say  to  them !  "  She  held  out  her  hand. 
;<  Thank  you  ever  so  much  for  asking  me,  but 
I'd  truly  rather  not."  He  wrung  her  hand, 
muttered  something  about  "  later,  then,"  and 
fled,  still  red  about  the  ears.  Cora  returned  to 
her  mother. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  seemed  to  be  hav- 
ing a  tremendous  flirtation  with  that  youth," 
laughed  Mrs.  Baldwin.  "  Such  a  hand-clasp 
at  parting!  Don't  dance  too  hard,  child." 
She  turned  to  the  half-dozen  parents  supporting 
her.  "  These  crazy  girls  of  mine  will  dance 
themselves  to  death  if  I  don't  keep  an  eye  on 
them,"  she  explained.  "  Amelie  says,  '  Mother, 
how  can  I  help  splitting  my  dances,  when  they 
beg  me  to  ?  '  I  am  always  relieved  when  the 
dance  is  over  and  they  are  safe  in  bed — then  I 
know  they  aren't  killing  themselves.  The  men 
have  no  mercy — they  never  let  them  rest  an 


instant." 


[152] 


A  Mother  of  Four 

"  I  don't  see  Miss  Enid  about,"  sug- 
gested Mr.  Merritt.  "  I  suppose  she  and  her 
Harry !" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so !  "  Mrs.  Baldwin 
shook  her  head  resignedly.  "  The  bad  child 
insists  on  being  married  in  the  spring,  but  I 
simply  cannot  face  the  idea.  What  can  I  do 
to  prevent  it,  Mrs.  Merritt  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  can't,'*  smiled  Mrs. 
Merritt.  "  We  mothers  all  have  to  face  that.'* 

"  Ah,  but  not  so  soon !  It  is  dreadful 
to  have  one's  girls  taken  away.  I  watch  the 
others  like  a  hawk;  the  instant  a  man  looks  too 
serious — pouf ! — I  whisk  him  away!  " 

Cora  stood  looking  down,  with  set  lips; 
a  flush  had  risen  in  her  usually  pale  cheeks. 
Dora,  setting  free  an  impatient  partner,  joined 
her  and  they  drew  aside. 

"  It  does  make  me  so  ashamed !  "  said 
Cora  impulsively. 

"  I  think  mother  really  makes  herself 
believe  it,"  said  Dora,  with  instant  understand- 
ing. 

They  watched  Amelie  flutter  up  to  their 

[153] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

mother  to  have  a  bow  retied,  and  stand  radiant 
under  the  raillery,  though  she  made  a  decent 
pretence  of  pouting.  Her  partner  vanished, 
and  Mrs.  Baldwin  insisted  on  her  resting  "  for 
one  minute,"  which  ended  when  another  partner 
appeared. 

"  Amelie  is  asked  much  more  than  we 
are,  always,"  Cora  suggested.  Dora  nodded 
at  the  implication. 

"  I  know.  I  wonder  why  it  never 
seems  quite  real.  Perhaps  because  the  devoted 
ones  are  such  silly  little  men." 

"  Or  seem  to  us  so,"  Cora  amended  con- 
scientiously. "  Don't  you  wish  we  might  creep 
upstairs.  Oh,  me,  here  comes  a  man,  just 
hating  it!  Which  do  you  suppose  he  will — 
Oh,  thank  you,  with  pleasure,  Mr.  Dorr!  " 
Cora  was  led  away,  and  Dora  slipped  into  the 
next  room,  that  her  mother  might  not  be  vexed 
at  her  partnerless  state. 

Mrs.  Baldwin  saw  to  it  that  the  twins 
had  partners  for  supper,  and  seated  them  at  a 
table  with  half  a  dozen  lively  spirits,  where 
they  ate  in  submissive  silence  while  the  talk 

[154] 


A  Mother  of  Four 

flowed  over  and  about  them.  No  one  seemed 
to  remember  that  they  were  there,  yet  they  felt 
big  and  awkward,  conspicuous  with  neglect, 
thoroughly  forlorn.  When  they  rose,  the 
others  moved  off  in  a  group,  leaving  them 
stranded.  Mrs.  Baldwin  beckoned  them  to  her 
table  with  her  fan. 

;<  Well,  twinnies,  yours  was  the  noisiest 
table  in  the  room,"  she  laughed.  "  I  was  quite 
ashamed  of  you!  When  these  quiet  girls  get 
going — !  "  she  added  expressively  to  her  group. 
The  twins  flushed,  standing  with  shamed  eyes 
averted.  In  the  rooms  above  the  music  had 
started,  and  the  bright  procession  moved  up 
the  stairs  with  laughter  and  the  shine  of  lights 
on  white  shoulders:  they  all  seemed  to  belong 
together,  to  be  glad  of  one  another.  "  Well, 
run  along  and  dance  your  little  feet  off,"  said 
Mrs.  Baldwin  gayly. 

They  hurried  away,  and  without  a  word 
mounted  by  the  back  stairs  to  their  own  room. 
When  their  eyes  met,  a  flash  of  anger  kindled, 
grew  to  a  blaze. 

"Oh,  I  won't  stand  it,  I  won't!"  ex- 
[155] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

claimed  Dora,  jerking  the  wreath  of  forget-me- 
nots  out  of  her  hair  and  throwing  it  on  the 
dressing-table.  "  We  have  been  humiliated 
long  enough.  Cora,  we're  twenty-four;  it  is 
time  we  had  our  own  way." 

Cora  was  breathing  hard.  "  Dora,  I 
will  never  go  to  another  party  as  long  as  I  live," 
she  said. 

"  Nor  I,"  declared  Dora. 

They  sat  down  side  by  side  on  the  couch 
to  discuss  ways  and  means.  A  weight  seemed 
to  be  lifted  off  their  lives.  In  the  midst  of 
their  eager  planning  the  door  opened  and  Mrs. 
Baldwin  looked  in  at  them  with  a  displeased 
frown. 

"  Girls,  what  does  this  mean?  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Come  down  at  once.  What  are 
you  thinking  of,  to  leave  your  guests  and  go  off 
like  this!" 

The  twins  felt  that  the  moment  had 
come,  and  instinctively  clasped  hands  as  they 
rose  to  meet  it. 

"  Mother,"  said  Dora  firmly,  "  we  have 
done  with  parties  forever  and  ever.  No  one 


A  Mother  of  Four 

likes  us  nor  wants  to  dance  with  us,  and  we  can't 
stand  it  any  more." 

"  Miss  Browne  still  wants  us  to  come 
there  and  teach,"  Cora  added,  her  voice  husky 
but  her  eyes  bright.  "  So  we  can  be  self-sup- 
porting, if — if  you  don't  approve.  We  are 
twenty-four  now,  mother,  and  we  have  to  live 
our  own  lives." 

They  stood  bravely  for  annihilation. 
Mrs.  Baldwin  laughed. 

"  You  foolish  twinnies !  I  know — some 
one  has  been  hurting  your  feelings.  Believe 
me,  my  dears,  even  I  did  not  always  get  just  the 
partner  my  heart  was  set  on!  And  I  cried 
over  it  in  secret,  just  like  any  other  little  girl. 
That  is  life,  you  know — we  can't  give  up  be- 
fore it.  Now  smooth  yourselves  and  come 
down,  for  some  of  them  are  leaving." 

She  blew  them  a  kiss  and  went  off 
smiling.  After  a  dejected  silence  Dora  took  up 
the  forget-me-not  wreath  and  replaced  it. 

"  I  suppose  we  might  as  well  finish  out 
this  evening,"  she  said.  "  But  the  revolution 
has  begun,  Cora !  " 

[157] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

'"  The  revolution  has  begun,"  Cora 
echoed. 

In  the  drawing-room  they  found  Mrs. 
Baldwin  talking  with  Mr.  Morton  and  Mr. 
White.  They  were  evidently  trying  to  say 
good  night,  but  she  was  holding  them  as  in- 
exorably as  if  she  had  laid  hands  on  their  coats; 
or  so  it  seemed  to  the  troubled  twins.  She 
summoned  her  daughters  with  her  bright, 
amused  glance. 

"  My  dears,"  she  said,  "  these  two  good 
friends  were  going  to  run  away  just  because 
they  do  not  dance  the  cotillon.  We  can't  allow 
that.  Suppose  you  take  them  to  the  library 
and  make  them  wholly  comfortable.  Indeed, 
they  have  danced  enough,  Mr.  White;  I  am 
thankful  to  have  them  stop  and  rest  for  a  while. 
I  will  take  the  blame  if  their  partners  are 
angry. 

She  nodded  a  smiling  dismissal.  Dis- 
concerted, wholly  ill  at  ease,  the  four  went 
obediently  to  the  library,  deserted  now  that  the 
cotillon  was  beginning.  The  two  men  strug- 
gled valiantly  with  the  conversation,  but  the 

[158] 


A  Mother  of  Four 

twins  sat  stricken  to  shamed  dumbness :  no  topic 
could  thrive  in  the  face  of  their  mute  rigidity. 
Silences  stalked  the  failing  efforts.  Mr. 
White's  eyes  clung  to  the  clock  while  his  throat 
dilated  with  secret  yawns;  Mr.  Morton  twisted 
restlessly  and  finally  let  a  nervous  sigh  escape. 
Dora  suddenly  clasped  her  hands  tightly  to- 
gether. 

:*  We  hate  it  just  as  much  as  you  do," 
she  said  distinctly. 

They  turned  startled  faces  toward  her. 
Cora  paled,  but  flew  to  her  sister's  aid. 

:<  We  knew  you  didn't  want  to  come," 
she  added  with  tremulous  frankness.  "  We 
would  have  let  you  off  if  we  could.  If  you 
want  to  go  now,  we  won't  be — hurt." 

They  rose,  and  so  did  the  bewildered 
visitors. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have — misunder- 
stood," began  Mr.  White. 

"No;  we  have  always  understood — 
everybody,"  said  Dora,  "  but  we  pretended  not 
to,  because  mother —  But  now  we  have  done 
with  society.  It  is  a  revolution,  and  this  is  our 

[159] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

last  party.  Good  night."  She  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  Good  night,"  repeated  Cora,  offering 
hers. .  The  guests  took  them  with  the  air  of 
culprits;  relief  was  evidently  drowned  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"  Well,  good  night — if  we  must,"  they 
said  awkwardly. 

Mrs.  Baldwin,  looking  into  the  library 
half  an  hour  later,  found  the  twins  sitting  there 
alone. 

"Where  are  your  cavaliers?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"  They  left  long  ago,"  Dora  explained 
sleepily.  "  Mayn't  we  go  to  bed?  " 

"  Oh,  for  pity's  sake — go !  "  was  the 
exasperated  answer. 

In  the  morning  the  twins  appeared 
braced  for  revolution.  When  a  reception  for 
that  afternoon  was  mentioned,  they  announced 
firmly  that  they  were  not  going. 

"  I  think  you  are  wise,"  said  Mrs.  Bald- 
win amiably.  "  You  both  look  tired." 

They  were  conscious  of  disappointment 
[160] 


A  Mother  of  Four 

as  well  as  relief;  it  was  the  establishment  of  a 
principle  they  wanted,  not  coddling.  Three 
weeks  went  by  in  the  same  debilitating  peace. 
The  twins  were  smiled  on  and  left  wholly  free. 
They  had  almost  come  to  believe  in  a  bloodless 
victory,  when  Mrs.  Baldwin  struck — a  masterly 
attack  where  they  were  weakest.  Her  weapon 
was — not  welcome  temper,  but  restrained 
pathos. 

"  A  mere  fourteen  at  dinner  and  a  few 
coming  in  to  dance  afterward,  and  I  do  want 
you  twinnies  to  be  there.  Now  I  have  not 
asked  one  thing  of  you  for  three  weeks;  don't 
you  think  you  owe  Mother  some  little  return?  " 

"  But — !  "  began  the  twins,  with  a  rush 
of  the  well-known  arguments.  Mrs.  Baldwin 
would  not  combat. 

"  I  ask  it  as  a  favor,  dear  girls,"  she 
said  gently.  They  clung  to  their  refusal,  but 
were  obviously  weakening  when  she  rose  to  her 
climax:  "Mr.  White  and  Mr.  Morton  have 
accepted !  "  She  left  them  with  that,  confident 
and  humming  to  herself. 

The  twins  stared  at  each  other  in  open 
[161] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

misery.  Reappear  now,  after  the  solemn 
declaration  they  had  made  to  those  two !  Their 
cheeks  burned  at  the  thought.  They  mounted 
to  their  room  to  formulate  their  resistance,  and 
found  two  exquisite  new  gowns,  suitable  for 
fairy  princesses,  spread  out  like  snares.  "  To 
please  Mother  "  seemed  to  be  written  on  every 
artful  fold.  And  Mrs.  Baldwin  was  not  a  rich 
woman,  for  her  way  of  life;  such  gowns  meant 
self-denial  somewhere.  The  twins  had  tears  in 
their  eyes. 

"  But  if  we  give  in  now,  we're  lost !  " 
they  cried. 

Nothing  more  was  said  about  the  dinner, 
Mrs.  Baldwin  gayly  assuming  success,  but  avoid- 
ing the  topic.  The  twins  wore  a  depressed  and 
furtive  air.  On  the  fatal  day  they  had  a  long 
interview  with  Miss  Browne,  of  the  Browne 
School,  and  came  away  solemn  with  excitement, 
to  shut  themselves  in  their  room  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon. 

A  few  minutes  before  the  dinner-hour 
Mrs.  Baldwin,  triumphant  in  satin  and  lace, 
paused  at  their  door. 


A  Mother  of  Four 

"Ready,  twinnies?"  she  began,  then 
stared  as  though  disbelieving  her  eyes.  In  the 
glow  of  the  student  lamp  sat  the  twins,  books  in 
their  hands  and  piled  high  on  the  table  beside 
them;  their  smooth,  dark  hair  was  unpom- 
padoured,  their  shoulders  were  lost  in  the  dark 
blouses  of  every  day. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  Mrs.  Bald- 
win asked  shortly,  fire  in  her  eyes. 

"  Mother,  we  told  you  we  could  not  go 
to  any  more  parties,  and  why,"  Cora  answered, 
a  note  of  pleading  in  her  voice. 

"  We  begin  teaching  on  Monday  in 
Miss  Browne's  school,"  added  Dora  more 
stoutly.  "  We  have  tried  your  way  for  years 
and  years,  mother.  Now  we  have  to  try  ours." 

Mrs.  Baldwin's  lace  bertha  rose  and  fell 
sharply. 

"  Indeed.  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you, 
but  so  long  as  you  live  under  my  roof,  you 
will  have  to  conform  to  the  ways  of  my  house- 
hold." 

"  Then,  mother,  we  cannot  stay  under 
your  roof." 

[163] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  As  you  please !  I  leave  the  choice  en- 
tirely to  you."  She  swept  out,  leaving  them 
breathless  but  resolute. 

"I  am  glad  of  it!"  said  Dora  with 
trembling  lips. 

In  explaining  their  absence  at  dinner, 
Mrs.  Baldwin  was  lightly  humorous  about  the 
twins'  devotion:  one  could  not  weather  a  head- 
ache without  the  other.  Mr.  White  and  Mr. 
Morton  exchanged  glances,  and  showed  interest 
in  the  topic,  as  if  they  were  on  the  track  of  some 
new  sociological  fact. 

Later  in  the  evening  the  twins,  their 
spirits  restored,  stole  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and 
peered  down  at  the  whirling  couples,  exultant 
not  to  be  among  them.  Mr.  White  was  stand- 
ing just  below,  and  he  glanced  up,  as  if  he 
might  have  been  listening.  His  face  bright- 
ened. 

"  May  I  come  up  ?  "  he  signaled,  and 
mounted  two  steps  at  a  time,  keen  interest  in 
his  thin,  intellectual  face. 

"  Is  it  really  headache,  or  is  it  revolu- 
tion?" he  asked  without  preface.  "Morton 


A  Mother  of  Four 

and  I  have  been  longing  to  know,  all  the 
evening." 

"  Revolution,"  said  the  twins. 

"  How  very  interesting !  Do  you  know, 
we  came  to-night  just  to  see  if  you  would  be 
there.  You — you  staggered  us,  the  other  even- 
ing. We  were  glad  when  you  didn't  appear 
— if  you  won't  misunderstand.  It  is  so  unex- 
pected, in  this  environment.  I  shall  be  curious 
to  see  how  far  you  can  carry  it  out."  He  was 
leaning  against  the  banister,  looking  at  them  as 
if  they  were  abstract  propositions  rather  than 
young  girls,  and  they  felt  unwontedly  at  ease. 

"  To  the  very  end,"  Dora  asserted. 
"  We  begin  teaching  Monday,  and — and  we 
have  to  find  a  place  to  board."  Her  color  rose 
a  little,  but  she  smiled. 

"  That  is  plucky,"  he  commented. 
"  We  can  help  you  there;  I  know  a  number  of 
places.  When  do  you  want  to  move  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,"  they  answered  in  unison. 

He  consulted  an  engagement-book,  re- 
flected a  few  moments,  then  made  a  note. 

"  Morton  or  I  will  call  for  you  to-mor- 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

row  at  three,"  he  announced  with  businesslike 
brevity.  "  I  think  I  know  just  the  place,  but 
we  will  give  you  a  choice.  If  you  really  wish 
to  move  in  at  once,  you  could  have  your  things 
packed,  ready  to  be  sent  for." 

"  Oh,  we  do !  "  said  Cora.  He  glanced 
meditatively  at  their  fine  and  glowing  faces. 

"  Of  course  you  won't  be  comfortable, 
luxurious,  as  you  are  here,"  he  warned  them, 
with  a  nod  toward  the  great  paneled  hall.  Mrs. 
Baldwin  passed  the  drawing-room  door  below 
with  the  stately  tread  of  a  reviewing  officer  on 
duty. 

"  Oh,  we  don't  care !  "  they  exclaimed 
eagerly. 

The  next  day  their  mother  treated  the 
twins  as  if  they  were  not.  She  spoke  no  word 
to  them  and  did  not  seem  to  hear  their  husky 
little  efforts  at  reconciliation.  They  found  it 
hard  to  remember  persistently  that  they  were 
revolutionists  rather  than  children  in  disgrace. 
She  was  unapproachable  in  her  own  room  when 
Mr.  White  and  Mr.  Morton  came  for  them. 

"  Well,  we  can't  help  it,"  they  said  sadly 
[166] 


A  Mother  of  Four 

as  they  locked  their  two  trunks  and  went  down 
the  stairs. 

Three  hours  later  the  twins  had  entered 
a  new  world  and  were  rapturously  making  an 
omelet  in  a  kitchen  that  had  begun  life  as  a 
closet,  while  Mr.  Morton  put  up  shelves  and 
hooks  and  Mr.  White  tacked  green  burlap  over 
gloomy  wall  paper.  Groceries  and  kitchen 
utensils  and  amusing  makeshift  furniture  kept 
arriving  in  exciting  profusion.  They  had  not 
dreamed  that  there  was  such  happiness  in  the 
world. 

"  If  only  mother  will  forgive  us,  it  will 
be  simply  perfect!  "  they  told  each  other  when 
they  settled  down  for  the  night  in  their  hard 
little  cots.  They  said  that  many  times  in  the 
days  that  followed  their  revolution.  The  utter 
joy  of  work  and  freedom  and  simplicity  had  no 
other  blemish. 

For  five  weeks  Mrs.  Baldwin  remained 
obdurate.  Then,  one  Sunday  afternoon,  she 
appeared,  cold,  critical,  resentful  still ;  lifted  her 
eyebrows  at  the  devices  of  their  light  housekeep- 
ing; looked  disgusted  when  they  pointed  out 
[167] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

from  the  window  the  little  cafe  where  they 
sometimes  dined;  and  offered  to  consent  to  their 
social  retirement  if  they  would  give  up  the 
teaching  and  come  home.  The  twins  were 
troubled  and  apologetic,  but  inflexible.  They 
had  found  the  life  they  were  meant  for:  they 
could  not  give  it  up.  If  she  knew  how  happy 
they  were ! 

"  How,  with  your  bringing  up,  you  can 
enjoy  this!  "  she  marveled.  "  It  isn't  respect- 
able— eating  in  nasty  little  holes  alone  at 
night  I  " 

"  But  it  is  a  nice,  clean  place,  and  Mr. 
White  and  Mr.  Morton  are  nearly  always  with 
us,"  Dora  began,  then  broke  off  at  an  expression 
of  pleased  enlightenment  that  flashed  across 
her  mother's  face.  *  They  are  just  very  good 
friends,"  she  explained  gravely;  "they  don't 
take  us  as  girls  at  all — that  is  why  we  have  such 
nice  times  with  them.  We  are  simply  com- 
rades, and  interested  in  the  same  books  and 
problems." 

"  And  they  bother  about  us  chiefly  be- 
cause we  are  a  sort  of  sociological  demonstra- 
[168] 


A  Mother  of  Four 

tion  to  them,"  Cora  added.  "  They  like  experi- 
ments of  every  kind." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  understand,"  assented  Mrs. 
Baldwin.  u  Well,  you  certainly  are  fixed  up 
very  nicely  here.  If  you  want  anything  from 
home,  let  me  know.  After  all,  it  is  a  piquant 
little  adventure.  If  you  are  happy  in  it,  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  not  to  complain." 

She  was  all  complacence  and  compliment 
the  rest  of  her  visit.  When  she  went  away,  the 
girls  glanced  uneasily  at  each  other. 

"  She  took  a  wrong  idea  in  her  head," 
said  Dora.  "  I  do  hope  we  undeceived  her.  It 
would  be  hard  for  her  to  understand  how 
wholly  mental  and  impersonal  our  friendship 
is  with  those  two." 

"  Well,  she  will  see  in  time,  when  noth- 
ing comes  of  it,"  said  Cora  confidently. 
"  That's  their  ring,  now.  Oh,  Dora,  isn't  our 
life  nice!" 

Mrs.  Baldwin,  passing  down  the  shabby 
front  steps,  might  have  seen  the  two  men  ap- 
proaching, one  with  an  armful  of  books  and  the 
other  with  a  potted  plant;  but  she  apparently 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

did  not  recognize  them,  for  she  stepped  into 
her  carriage  without  a  sign.  The  visit  seemed 
to  have  left  a  pleasant  memory  with  her,  how- 
ever; her  bland  serenity,  as  she  drove  away, 
was  not  unlike  that  of  the  cat  which  has  just 
swallowed  the  canary. 


The  Riper  Tears 


MAIDA  had  been  home  an  hour  before 
the  subject  was  broached.  Her  mother,  follow- 
ing her  nervously  from  room  to  room,  could 
not  tell  whether  it  was  in  her  mind  or  not;  she 
was  gay,  alert,  a  little  boyish,  just  as  she  always 
was  on  her  yearly  return  from  college;  inter- 
ested in  the  new  dining-room  wall  paper  and  the 
private  bathroom  that  was  her  special  surprise; 
brief  and  uncommunicative  about  the  details  of 
her  graduation  but  eloquent  over  the  tennis 
finals — to  all  appearances  as  unreproachful  and 
friendly  as  her  letters  had  shown  her.  Mrs. 
Hamilton  herself  flushed  pink  at  every  pause, 
absently  repeated  her  questions,  and  listened  to 
Maida's  talk  with  wide,  troubled  eyes  and  a 
fixed  smile;  the  tenderness  of  her  frequent 
"  Yes,  dear!  "  was  very  close  to  tears. 

The  photograph  on  her  dressing  table 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

finally  brought  them  to  it.  Maida  picked  it  up 
and  looked  with  smiling  inscrutability  at  the 
solemn,  kindly,  middle-aged  face. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

It  came  out  in  a  torrent,  all  that  Mrs. 
Hamilton  had  been  rehearsing  during  the  un- 
easy days  of  expectation. 

"  You  know,  dear,  I  won't  do  it  for  one 
moment  if  it  is  in  any  way  distasteful  to  you. 
I  wrote  you  that,  and  the  Judge  understands  it 
perfectly.  Your  letters  were  lovely,  Maida — 
they  might  so  easily  have  been  a  little  unkind, 
and,  indeed,  I  should  have  understood  it.  To 
a  girl  of  your  age  it  might  seem  rather — shock- 
ing, perhaps;  or  ridiculous.  I  want  you  to  be 
frank  with  me,  my  dear  girl.  I  shall  never 
consciously  do  anything  that  would  spoil  your 
home  for  you."  And  two  tears  ran  suddenly 
down  the  smooth,  delicate  little  face.  Maida, 
always  embarrassed  before  emotion,  kept  her 
eyes  on  the  photograph. 

"  Why,  mother,  I  have  no  objection," 
she  said  cheerfully.  "  Judge  Reynolds  is  a 
fine  old  chap — I  shall  like  having  him  about 

[172] 


The  Riper  Years 

the  house,  if  you  don't  mind  him."  Her  eyes 
met  her  mother's  in  a  fleeting  glance.  "  I'm 
not  sentimental,  you  know;  I  shouldn't  want 
any  one — that  way — myself.  But  if  you  do — 
well,  then,  I'm  jolly  glad  you've  got  it."  She 
put  the  picture  down  and  gave  her  mother's 
shoulder  a  furtive  pat,  which  was  as  near  as 
she  ever  willingly  came  to  a  caress.  "  He's  a 
first-rate  man;  I  respect  him  a  lot,"  she  added. 

Happy  relief  set  Mrs.  Hamilton  bloom- 
ing. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Maida,  he  is  a  remarkable 
man.  In  a  bigger  place,  with  wider  opportuni- 
ties, he  would  be  very  famous.  As  it  is,  the 
whole  county  comes  to  him  for  his  opinion. 
And  he's  so  courageous,  Maida !  Never  afraid 
to  say  exactly  what  he  believes.  Why,  a  big 
corporation  once  tried — "  Her  earnest  voice 
faltered  and  paused  before  the  glimmer  of  a 
grin  on  her  daughter's  face.  "  Anybody  would 
tell  you  exactly  the  same  things;  I  am  not 
biased,  dear,  truly,"  she  urged,  flushing.  The 
glimmer  was  dutifully  repressed,  though  it  still 
lurked  close  to  the  surface. 

[173] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Of  course,  he's  splendid,"  Maida  as- 
sented. "  By  the  way,  does  Billy  come  with 
him?" 

"  Oh,  no;  he  will  take  rooms  some- 
where. He  has  been  very  sweet  and  nice — it 
makes  me  very  happy,  Maida,  that  both  our 
children  take  it  so — so  kindly." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right.  I'm  glad  if  you 
are,"  Maida  reassured  her.  When  her  mother 
was  called  away,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  glim- 
mer returned;  she  picked  up  the  photograph 
again  and  studied  with  twinkling  eyes  the  solid 
citizen  it  represented.  Across  the  back  was 
boldly  written,  "  For  Fanny,"  and  a  quotation 
beginning,  "  Unto  the  riper  years — "  Maida 
hastily  put  it  down. 

"  Oh,  Lord!  "  she  murmured. 

One  afternoon  two  weeks  later  Maida 
frankly  posted  herself  at  the  garden  gate  to- 
ward six  o'clock,  when  a  blaze  of  curly  red  hair 
and  a  short  pipe  usually  signaled  the  passing 
of  her  future  stepbrother.  His  droll  face,  like 
a  narrow  block  of  white  wood  curiously  carved, 
creased  into  a  smile  at  sight  of  her. 

[174] 


The  Riper  Years 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,  Billy;  I  want 
to  have  a  talk  with  you,"  Maida  said,  opening 
the  gate. 

"Why  didn't  you  pretend  that  the 
meeting  was  accidental,  and  start  with  surprise  ? 
I  should  have  felt  more  flattered,"  he  sug- 
gested, following  her  across  the  lawn  to  an  an- 
cient latticed  summer-house. 

"  Why  should  I  bother  to  flatter  you, 
Billy  Reynolds?"  Maida  demanded. 

"  Well,  girls  always  do.  Besides,  I  ex- 
pect to  hand  you  out  numerous  bouquets." 

"  It  will  be  a  change.  You  slapped  me 
once  in  this  very  summer-house." 

"  And  I  dare  say  I  shall  again.  I  cer- 
tainly shall  if  you  bite  my  thumb  half  off,  as 
you  did  that  day." 

"  It  was  your  own  fault  for  trying  to 
cover  two  thirds  of  the  chocolate  with  it.  I 
only  wanted  my  fair  half." 

'*  Well,  I  will  send  you  up  a  cake  of 
Peter's,  if  that  is  what  you  called  me  in  about." 
They  both  laughed. 

"No;  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about 

[175] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

your  father.  Truly,  Billy,  you  have  got  to 
make  him  behave." 

"What  on  earth  is  he  doing?  I'd  run 
a  mile  to  see  him  actually  misbehave,"  he  added 
with  an  eagerness  whose  roots  lay  deep  in  his 
own  past. 

"  He  stays  too  late,"  said  Maida  with 
indignation.  "  Mother  always  wakes  up  at 
dawn  anyway,  and  here  he  is  keeping  her  up 
till  eleven  and  twelve  four  nights  a  week — it's 
too  much  for  her.  She  can't  sleep  daytimes, 
and  she  is  getting  so  nervous  and  tired.  I  don't 
exactly  like  to  pound  on  the  floor  or  wind  the 
hall  clock,  but — "  Under  Billy's  hoot  of  laugh- 
ter her  frown  melted  into  an  answering  laugh. 

"  I  might  come  and  take  him  home 
at  ten,"  he  suggested.  "  Why  doesn't  your 
mother  fire  him?  " 

"  She  promises  to,  but  she's  so  afraid  of 
hurting  his  feelings.  Besides,  you  know " 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  I  think  she  sort  of — likes  hav- 
ing him.  She  wants  him  to  stay."  Billy  hooted 
again  at  the  reluctance  of  the  admission. 


The  Riper  Years 

"  I  suppose  you  never  wanted  any  one 
to  stay,  yourself !  " 

11  Certainly  not,  after  a  sensible  hour!  " 

He  looked  at  her  meditatively.  "  It 
might  be  good  sport  to — enlighten  your  dense 
ignorance."  His  tone  was  derisive,  but  some 
expression  in  his  red-brown  eyes  made  her 
frown  restively. 

"  Oh,  we  will  leave  all  that  to  our  par- 
ents," she  said  impatiently.  "  But  couldn't  you 
give  your  father  a  hint?  " 

There  was  humor  in  the  slow  shake  of 
his  head.  "  I  don't  see  myself  doing  it,  some- 
way." 

"  Well,  then,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to. 
I  am  not  going  to  have  her  all  worn  out."  She 
rose  with  a  definiteness  that  brought  him  reluc- 
tantly to  his  feet. 

"  You  don't  have  any  trouble  sending 
people  home  yourself,  do  you !  "  he  commented. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Maida,  wholly 
missing  the  application.  He  smiled  to  himself 
as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  You're  a  fine,  strong  woman,  Maida," 

[177] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

he  said.  "  It's  splendid  characters  like  you  that 
pass  bills  through  the  legislature  and  get  the 
suffrage  and  all  that.  But  sometimes  you  splen- 
did characters  get  something  else,  just  the 
sarnie.  And  get  it  bad."  Maida  resentfully 
drew  away  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  good  night,"  she  said. 

When  the  Judge,  with  his  solemn  shy- 
ness and  his  top  hat,  mounted  the  steps  the  fol- 
lowing evening,  the  somewhat  rakish  figure  of 
his  son  lounged  in  his  wake. 

"  Father  bribed  me  to  come  and  keep 
you  out  of  the  way  to-night,"  he  announced  to 
Maida,  who  opened  the  wire  door  for  them. 

"  My  dear  Will !  How  can  you  tell 
such  an  untruth !  "  The  Judge  was  red  with 
righteous  wrath.  "  I  assure  you,  Maida " 

"Oh,  I  know  Billy!"  she  comforted 
him.  "  I  never  believe  him.  Mother  is  in  the 
sitting  room,  Judge  Reynolds.  I  am  going  out 
to  weed  the  pansies,  Billy — you  may  come  if 
you  like." 

"  But  I  am  calling  on  you,"  he  pro- 
tested as  the  Judge,  superhumanly  erect  and 


The  Riper  Years 

still  slightly  glowering,  entered  the  sitting 
room.  "  You  can't  go  about  your  chores  just 
as  if  you  were  alone." 

"Why  not?" 

"  When  you  have  been  home  a  little 
longer,  Maida,  you  will  realize  that  a  man 
caller  is  not  to  be  taken  lightly  or  forced  to 
weed  the  garden.  They  give  him  the  best  chair 
here  and  make  him  lemonade  and —  What  is 
it?"  For  Maida  was  staring  after  the  Judge 
with  a  look  of  incredulous  dismay.  Yet  the 
tableau  seen  through  the  half-open  door  was 
not  a  surprising  one  under  the  circumstances. 

"  Boys  will  be  boys,  you  know,"  Billy 
reminded  her  gravely.  "  We  have  to  be  pa- 
tient with  the  young  people,  my  dear." 

Maida  turned  to  the  dusky  garden. 
"  Oh,  it's  all  right  if  they  like  it,"  she  said  with 
an  expressive  wrinkling  of  her  nose.  "  One 
comfort,  you  can  take  him  home  early  to-night 
and  let  mother  get  some  sleep." 

"  Exactly  why  I  came — "  Billy  seated 
himself  on  the  steps  and  took  out  a  cigarette — 
"  only  I'm  not  going  so  infernally  early  my- 

[179] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

self,"  he  added,  his  tone  decided  but  his  eye  cau- 
tiously inquiring. 

"  I  couldn't  do  the  pansies  to-day,  it  was 
so  hot,"  said  Maida,  kneeling  before  a  gold  and 
purple  bed  beside  the  steps. 

"  I  said,"  repeated  Billy  with  cold  em- 
phasis, "  that  I  was  not  going  home  so  infer- 
nally early  myself." 

"Well?" 

"  Haven't  you  the  manners  to  express 
pleasure  at  the  news?"  She  laughed  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  I  feel  about  it  later 
in  the  evening,"  she  said. 

Promptly  at  ten  o'clock  the  Judge  was 
interrupted  in  the  story  of  an  important  legal 
battle  by  the  entrance  of  the  young  people  with 
a  pitcher  of  lemonade.  Twenty  minutes  later, 
as  he  walked  home  with  his  son,  he  commented 
approvingly  on  this  sweet  little  daughterly  act. 

"  Maida  is  a  very  thoughtful  girl,"  he 
added  contentedly. 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  thoughtful,"  Billy  as- 
sented. He  seemed  depressed. 

[i  so] 


The  Riper  Years 

Billy  came  frequently  after  that,  and 
the  Judge,  being  a  methodical  person,  soon  fell 
into  the  way  of  taking  his  departure  shortly 
after  ten,  whether  his  son  were  there  or  not. 
But  having  plenty  of  time  for  sleep  did  not  pro- 
duce the  expected  effect  on  Mrs.  Hamilton. 
She  seemed  to  become  daily  more  wan,  more 
nervous,  and  her  appetite,  always  small,  dis- 
appeared altogether.  Maida  watched  her  with 
indignant  anxiety. 

"  Why  don't  they  marry  and  get  it  over 
with?  What  is  the  sense  of  waiting  till  Octo- 
ber? "  she  demanded  of  Billy  one  evening;  she 
was  mounted  on  a  ladder,  training  and  pruning 
the  vines  with  which  the  old  summer-house  was 
heaped  up  and  running  over,  while  he  sat  on 
the  step  beneath  discontentedly  watching  her. 
His  good  spirits  seemed  to  have  deserted  him 
of  late. 

"  You're  always  so  busy,"  he  com- 
plained. "  Why  can't  you  sit  down  here  and 
be  sociable  like  anybody  else?" 

"  Oh,  I  like  to  get  things  done."  The 
scissors  snapped  energetically  and  several  long 
[181] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

sprays  of  honeysuckle  fell  about  his  head. 
"  But  about  mother  and  the  Judge — why  don't 
they?" 

"  I  believe  the  idea  was  to  let  you  down 
easy — give  you  a  summer  to  get  used  to  the 
idea." 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  cut  that  out  and  have 
a  sane  and  orderly  household.  We  have  had 
steak  three  times  this  week  because  mother  for- 
got that  she  ordered  it  before,  and  half  the 
time  there's  no  butter  for  breakfast  or  not  an 
egg  in  the  house.  She  has  given  up  eating,  her- 
self, and  the  consequence  is —  Oh,  I  think  en- 
gaged people  are  dreadful !  " 

Billy  was  weaving  the  honeysuckle 
sprays  into  a  wreath. 

"  I  don't  have  any  trouble  with  the  old 
boy,"  he  observed.  "  He  eats  and  sleeps  about 
as  usual." 

"  Men  have  a  little  sense,"  Maida  con- 
ceded, coming  down  to  move  her  ladder.  When 
she  had  finished  her  work  she  sat  on  the  step 
beside  him  and  submitted  indifferently  to  hav- 
ing the  honeysuckle  wreath  placed  on  her  hair. 


The  Riper  Years 

His  hands  lingered  over  the  task,  his  eyes  rest- 
ing gravely  on  her  clear  profile. 

"I  must  train  the  vines  on  the  wood- 
shed to-morrow/'  said  Maida.  His  hand  fell 
with  exasperated  heaviness  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Woman,  wake  up !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Here  it  is  a  night  full  of  stars,  and  you  look 
like  a  dream  princess  with  your  hair  full  of 
flowers — and  you  talk  about  the  wood-shed! 
Don't  you  ever  see  an  inch  beyond  the  prac- 
tical?" 

She  drew  away  resentfully  from  his 
hand.  "  You  needn't  knock  me  over,"  she  pro- 
tested. He  sighed. 

"  Well,  I  said  I  should  probably  slap 
you  again  on  this  historic  spot,"  he  said  more 
mildly.  His  quaint,  comedian  face  looked  old 
and  tired  in  the  dim  light.  Maida  turned  away 
from  it  frowning,  but  her  eyes  came  back  to  it 
again  and  again  in  the  half  hour  of  silence  that 
followed. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Billy,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. 

"  I  know  you  can't,  dearest."     It  was 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

spoken  so  quietly  and  naturally,  that  amazing 
word,  that  she  could  not  take  offense,  could  not 
even  seem  to  notice  it;  and  yet  it  was  disturb- 
ing. She  almost  forgot  his  presence  as  she  sat 
turning  it  over,  wondering  at  it,  throwing  it 
angrily  away,  and  then  curiously  picking  it  up 
again.  Dearest — strange  little  word  to  have  so 
big  an  echo ! 

She  was  startled  back  to  the  present  by 
the  appearance  of  the  reformed  Judge. 

"After  ten,  Will;  time  to  be  going. 
We  old  people  can't  sit  up  like  you  young 
ones,"  he  added  innocently.  Maida  looked 
self-conscious,  but  Will  laughed  outright. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  had  already  gone  to  her 
room  when  Maida  went  in.  The  girl's  sleep 
was  broken  and  troubled  that  night,  and  when- 
ever she  wakened  she  had  a  sense  of  sighs  and 
uneasy  turnings  in  the  next  room.  Starting  up 
from  a  doze  as  the  clock  struck  three,  she  saw 
a  light  under  her  mother's  door.  She  rose  in 
wrath. 

;t  Why  aren't  you  asleep?"  she  de- 
manded from  the  doorway. 


The  Riper  Years 

"  It  seems  to  me — rather  close."  Her 
mother  spoke  guiltily,  and  the  eyes  she  lifted 
from  her  book  were  unmistakably  tear-stained. 
Maida  stumped  severely  to  the  windows,  open- 
ing them  wider  and  fastening  back  the  curtains. 
With  her  back  to  her  mother  she  took  the 
plunge. 

"If  you're  waiting  till  October  on  my 
account,"  she  began  abruptly,  "  I  wish  you 
wouldn't.  I  should  much  prefer  it  right  now." 

"There  is  no  hurry;  October  will  do 
very  well."  Mrs.  Hamilton  spoke  quietly,  a 
little  coldly,  her  eyes  on  her  book,  but  Maida 
was  sure  that  the  firmly  closed  lips  would  quiver 
helplessly  at  another  word.  She  turned  uncer- 
tainly back  to  her  own  room. 

"Well,  good  night.  Do  sleep,"  she 
urged. 

They  avoided  each  other's  eyes  in  the 
morning,  but  it  was  quite  clear  that  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton was  unhappy.  Maida  tried  to  cheer  her 
with  references  to  the  Judge's  sterling  qualities, 
but,  after  a  wan  assent,  her  mother  seemed  to 
sink  deeper  than  ever  into  depression.  Then 
[185] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Maida  turned  firmly  to  cheerful  topics  of  gen- 
eral interest,  and  invited  her  mother  to  go  to 
drive.  But  it  was  a  weary  drive,  talking  to 
deaf  ears  and  pointing  out  the  beauties  of  na- 
ture to  sad  little  elderly  eyes  that  more  than 
once  filled  with  tears.  Maida  knew  that  she 
ought  boldly  to  demand  the  cause,  but  her  hor- 
ror of  sentimental  confidences  was  still  too 
strong. 

"  He  has  hurt  her  feelings  or  some- 
thing; engaged  people  are  always  like  that," 
she  reassured  herself. 

The  next  day  was  a  little  better.  Mrs. 
Hamilton  became  quite  cheerful  after  supper 
as  she  sat  in  spotless  precision  waiting  for  the 
Judge.  Maida,  sitting  on  the  front  steps,  found 
herself  watching  for  two  figures;  whereupon 
she  rose  impatiently  and  sought  a  hoe. 

"  Idiocy  seems  to  be  contagious,"  she 
muttered,  going  viciously  at  the  weeds  under 
the  hollyhocks.  Mrs.  Hamilton  came  out  pres- 
ently and  stood  watching  her  from  the  porch. 

"  They  are  late  to-night,"  said  Maida 
cheerfully. 

[186] 


The  Riper  Years 

"  Yes ;  he  is  always  here  before  this." 
The  brief  brightness  had  left  Mrs.  Hamilton's 
face.  Maida's  next  slash  nearly  laid  low  a 
hollyhock.  She  went  indoors  presently,  but  all 
the  evening  she  could  not  lose  consciousness  of 
the  frail  little  figure  sitting  motionless  on  the 
veranda. 

At  nine  o'clock  she  gripped  the  situ- 
ation. 

"  Something  must  have  detained  him," 
she  said,  coming  out  and  seating  herself  on  the 
balustrade. 

"  Yes;  it  is  very  much  what  I  have  been 
expecting."  Mrs.  Hamilton's  voice  sounded 
dim  and  hopeless. 

"Expecting?" 

"  Yes,  Maida.  I  think  it  has  all  been 
a — a  mistake."  Maida  was  startled  out  of  her 
horror  of  confidences. 

"  You  don't  want  to  do  it?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  dear !  I  mean,  yes — it  is  not 
that.  But  I  think  the  Judge — I  have  been  no- 
ticing for  some  weeks — I  am  an  old  woman, 
Maida,  and  it  was  folly  to  suppose  I  could — 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

hold  such  a — such  an  important  man.  I  under- 
stand perfectly — "  The  poor  little  voice  fal- 
tered. 

"  But,  mother,  he  seems  so  happy  and 
satisfied;  and  this  is  the  first  night  he  has 
missed  coming,"  Maida  urged.  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton bravely  dried  her  eyes. 

"  I  know,  dear.  But  I  have  been  no- 
ticing he — he  does  not  stay  nearly  so  long  as 
he  used  to.  And  I  think  he  sometimes — I  don't 
mean  this  unkindly — but  I  think  he  sometimes 
brings  his  son  just  so  as  to — to  break  it  up  in 
good  season.  I  am  not  speaking  in  blame — I 
understand  perfectly.  But  it  has — it  has  kept 
me  from  sleeping  so  well,  and  so  I  suppose  I 
am — easily  upset.  You  must  excuse  me,  dear." 
A  sob  broke  from  her  and  she  went  blindly  into 
the  house.  Maida  stared  after  her  in  sick  dis- 
may. So  this  was  what  she  had  wrought;  and 
she  had  meant  so  well! 

The  gate  clicked  and  a  footstep  on  the 

gravel  sent  a  curious  pang,  half  pleasant,  half 

terrifying,    through    her   left   side.      It   passed 

abruptly  as  she  recognized  the  Judge.    He  was 

.[188] 


The  Riper  Years 

in  business  clothes  and  an  unwonted  air  of  the 
day's  disorder  hung  about  him. 

"  Good  evening,  Maida.  Am  I  too  late 
to  come  in?  "  he  asked  apologetically.  "  I  was 
kept  downtown  until  now " 

Maida  clutched  her  courage  in  both 
hands. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came — I  want  to  speak 
to  you.  Judge  Reynolds,  I  don't  think  mother 
is  very  well.  I  think  she  ought  to  go  away  for 
a  few  weeks."  He  looked  so  dismayed  that  she 
could  have  embraced  him.  "  Being  engaged 
seems  to  be  a  great  strain,"  she  went  on  bravely. 
"  I  wish  that — October  were  not  so  far  away." 
His  face  lit  up. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  your  mother  thought 
that  you —  Well,  really,  there  is  no  fixed  law 
about  October.  So  far  as  that  goes,  next  week 
would — "  She  grasped  his  arm. 

"  Go  and  tell  her  that,"  she  whispered. 
Then  she  ran  down  into  the  garden,  leaving 
him  to  find  the  way  in. 

A  whistle  from  the  gate  brought  again 
that  curious  stab  of  expectancy.  She  was  ab- 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

sorbed  in  unscrewing  the  hose  when  Will  came 
through  the  shrubbery. 

"Is  my  father  here?"  he  asked.  "I 
have  been  waiting  all  the  evening  to  chaperon 
him." 

"Oh,  he's  here!  "  said  Maida  dryly. 

"  Misbehaving?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  But  if  ever  I  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  engaged  people  again !  " 

"  But  you  will — you  can't  help  your- 
self! "  It  was  not  too  dark  for  him  to  see  a 
sudden  tide  of  color  in  her  face.  He  came  and 
took  the  hose  from  her.  "  Let  me  help  you, 
dearest,"  he  said,  his  air  entirely  practical  as  he 
knelt  down  by  the  faucet.  The  little  word 
echoed  and  reverberated  about  her. 

"Don't  you  call  me  that!"  she  cried 
desperately.  Will,  at  her  feet,  smiled  to  him- 
self. 


[190] 


XI 

Nature 

"  BACK  to  nature — that  is  what  she 
needs,"  commanded  the  doctor,  and  Louise,  un- 
consulted  and  disconsolate,  was  straightway 
transported  to  the  wilds  by  her  anxiously  con- 
cerned father.  Once  established,  with  her 
mother  and  a  servant,  in  a  borrowed  pine  cabin, 
with  Bald  Mountain  towering  high  above  them 
and  Loon  Lake  shimmering  beneath,  she  inter- 
preted the  doctor's  words  as  a  literal  command 
to  turn  her  back  to  nature,  and  turned  it  with 
defiant  persistence. 

"It's  no  use;  I  don't  like  the  woods, 
and  I  never  have  and  I  never  shall!  "  she  was 
goaded  into  exclaiming  after  forty-eight  hours 
had  dragged,  one  by  one,  over  her  head.  "  And 
I  haven't  slept  any  better  than  at  Westering," 
she  added  with  covert  triumph. 

Mrs.  Russell  looked  up  from  her  book 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

with  a  smile  that  was  amused,  faintly  derisive, 
and  wholly  untouched  by  responsibility. 

"  How  silly  you  are,  Louise !  "  she 
commented,  and  her  eyes  returned  to  the  page 
without  expectation  of  an  answer.  Louise 
sighed  fretfully,  but  attempted  none.  She  did 
not  even  feel  resentful  for  more  than  half  a 
minute;  it  was  impossible  to  cherish  anger 
against  a  person  so  aloof  and  so  exquisitely 
handsome  as  her  fine,  dark-haired  mother,  espe- 
cially when  one  was — well,  "  more  like  the 
father,"  it  was  kindly  expressed. 

Nature,  whose  radiant  morning  had 
been  ignored,  had  withdrawn  behind  a  fine  veil 
of  rain.  A  hearty  pattering  on  the  cabin  roof 
would  have  had  its  own  charm,  but  this  sound- 
less, clinging,  almost  invisible  misting  seemed 
to  Louise  funereal.  The  great  pines  about  them 
dripped  solemnly  at  long  intervals;  drenched 
witch-hazels  made  the  paths  impassable;  the 
hammock  on  the  porch  was  as  clammily  damp 
as  though  it  were  not  under  cover.  A  log  fire 
made  the  living  room  the  only  habitable  spot, 
and,  convinced  that  any  hope  of  diversion  was 
[192] 


Nature 

over  for  that  day,  she  got  out  the  bundle  of 
books  that  her  father  had  placed  in  her  trunk. 
Their  titles  filled  her  with  fresh  exasperation: 
"  Bird  Notes,"  "  The  Insect  World,"  "  Deni- 
zens of  the  Forest,"  "  Nature's  Children," 
"  The  Heart  of  the  Wild."  She  pushed  them 
angrily  away,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  hot 
tears,  partly  because  she  hated  them,  partly  be- 
cause a  sudden  vision  of  her  anxious,  careful 
father,  earnestly  selecting  these  dreary  volumes 
and  carrying  them  home  himself  lest  they 
should  not  arrive  in  time,  hurt  her  inexplicably. 
His  devotion  had  always  held  this  uncompre- 
hended  pang  for  her,  even  in  the  days  when  he 
buttoned  her  leggings  in  the  morning  and 
started  her  off  to  school,  or  hurried  home  from 
the  office  to  help  her  with  her  arithmetic.  Close 
on  her  impatience  now  came  a  compassionate 
need  to  put  her  arms  about  him  and  tell  him 
how  good  he  was,  and  she  fell  to  thinking  how, 
if  he  were  dead  instead  of  merely  returned  to 
the  city,  this  need  would  be  deepened  to  a  haunt- 
ing passion  of  regret  that  she  had  not  done  it 
oftener;  and  so,  when  her  mother  chanced  to 

[193] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

glance  up  from  the  pages  of  Pierre  Loti,  she 
saw  symptoms  that  had  grown  dismally  famil- 
iar of  late — scarlet  eyelids  and  wet  cheeks.  She 
closed  the  book  over  a  tentative  forefinger. 

"  I  will  play  backgammon  with  you,  if 
you  like,  Louise,"  she  volunteered,  after  a  mo- 
ment of  silent  consideration.  Louise  hastily 
averted  her  face,  not  knowing  herself  discov- 
ered. 

"  I  think  I  will  write  to  papa  now ;  I  am 
in  the  mood  for  it — thank  you,  mother." 

Mrs.  Russell  returned  to  her  book  with- 
out comment. 

Louise's  nervous  disorder  had  not  been 
brought  about  by  the  usual  dissipations  of  her 
age.  Although  she  was  twenty-one,  she  had 
never  "  come  out."  She  had  confidently  ex- 
pected to  when  she  left  school,  three  years  be- 
fore. When  she  brought  up  the  subject,  her 
mother,  after  hearing  her,  had  mused  for  a 
disconcerting  interval  on  the  eager  face  that  not 
even  the  fresh  skin  of  youth  could  beautify. 

"  Why,  you  may  come  out  if  you  want 
to,  Louise,"  she  had  said  finally,  "  but  I  don't 
[194] 


Nature 

believe  you  would  be  a  success;  you  never  have 
got  on  at  all  with  boys.  You  would  not  enjoy 
coming  out  and  being  a  wallflower,  would 
you?" 

Most  emphatically  Louise  would  not 
have  enjoyed  being  a  wallflower — the  word 
had  sent  a  flush  up  to  her  smooth  brown  hair. 
Her  mother's  verdict  left  a  gash,  but  she  did  not 
dream  of  appealing  from  it;  the  subject  was 
never  brought  up  again.  So  she  had  given  her 
days  to  girl  friends  and  desultory  studies,  em- 
broidery and  horseback  riding  and  fitful  philan- 
thropy, spending  six  months  in  town  and  six 
in  Westering,  an  expensive  suburb  with  lawns 
and  paved  sidewalks,  where  she  did  very  much 
the  same  things  as  in  the  city.  And  when  a 
man  had  crossed  her  way,  she  had  remembered 
that  she  was  not  born  to  success  and  had  sat 
passive  until  he  drifted  past.  If  he  stayed,  it 
was  because  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her 
mother,  whose  wonderful  eyebrows,  slim  and 
mobile  as  little  black  serpents,  would  presently 
take  a  bored,  derisive  arch  at  the  discovery,  and 
so  send  him  away  writhing.  Why,  out  of  such 

[195] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

a  tame,  hygienic  order  of  life,  Louise  should 
suddenly  develop  hysterics  and  insomnia,  only 
nature  could  explain;  and  so,  logically  enough, 
it  was  to  nature  that  she  had  been  sent.  The 
doctor  was  elderly  and  conventional,  and  even 
the  girl  herself  did  not  realize  that  the  wrong 
kind  of  nature  had  been  chosen. 

The  drizzle  had  stopped  by  the  time 
Louise  had  finished  her  letter;  there  were  signs 
of  light  in  the  west,  giving  hope  of  a  sunset. 
She  started  up. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  mail  this  myself," 
she  announced.  "  Papa  said  the  trail  was  per- 
fectly plain." 

"  A  good  idea,"  said  her  mother  ab- 
sently. It  was  Annie  who  insisted  on  rubbers. 
Annie's  hair  was  spun  amber  and  her  eyes  were 
blue  delft,  and  her  place  was  that  of  upper 
housemaid,  but  she  had  cheerfully  deserted  her 
sphere  and  unnumbered  followers  to  come  up 
into  the  wilds  as  cook,  from  devotion  to  her 
handsome,  impassive  mistress.  Louise,  as  one 
of  Mrs.  Russell's  belongings,  was  briskly 
looked  after. 


Nature 

The  pensive,  earthy  odors  of  autumn 
rising  from  the  sodden  trail  were  sweetened 
and  glorified  by  a  burst  of  golden  light  as 
Louise  set  out;  the  leaves  of  the  witch-hazels 
were  turned  to  shining,  glancing  mirrors.  An 
early  frost  had  set  the  maples  flaming,  and  al- 
ready the  blaze  was  spreading  to  oak  and  beech 
and  aspen.  The  chain  of  little  dipping  hills 
across  the  lake  looked  like  Persian  rugs  hung 
on  slack  clothes  lines.  Louise  paused  to  laugh 
at  the  simile,  forgetting  for  the  moment  her 
boredom  and  her  unconquerable  dislike  of  the 
woods. 

She  had  not  seen  him  until  her  laugh 
made  him  look  up;  and  then  she  found  herself 
looking  down  into  two  of  the  bluest  eyes  ever 
set  in  a  brown  face,  a  dark  blue,  yet  of  such 
sapphire  clearness  that  she  saw  color  before 
outline.  The  man  was  kneeling  on  the  trail, 
tying  the  last  knots  in  a  heavy  bundle  that  he 
had  evidently  been  repacking.  His  brown  can- 
vas suit  showed  him,  as  he  rose,  magnificently 
tall  and  straight,  his  head  set  above  his  broad 
shoulders  with  the  ease  of  a  stag's,  his  features 

[197] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

shaped  with  the  grave  beauty  of  ancient  sculp- 
ture. For  the  moment  Louise  could  only  stare. 
She  had  never  looked  on  a  man  like  this,  and 
the  next  twenty  steps  were  as  twenty  epochs  of 
her  experience.  So  far  did  they  carry  her  that, 
from  a  first  tremulous  wonder  whether  she 
might  not  venture  a  bow  in  passing,  she  jumped 
to  panic  lest  he  should  go  before  she  could 
speak. 

"  Is  this  the  trail  to  the  post  office?  "she 
asked  hurriedly,  with  fluttering  color  and  her 
heart  struggling  at  her  throat. 

He  paused  before  answering,  not,  evi- 
dently, in  doubt,  but  because  his  ways  were  de- 
liberate; and  in  that  moment  the  simplicity  of 
his  amazing  beauty  stabbed  her  with  glorious 
pain,  like  the  sight  of  a  great  deed.  Then  fate 
dealt  her  the  sharpest  blow  of  her  life,  a  blow 
that  left  her  dazed,  gasping,  wholly  uncompre- 
hending, yet  crushed  under  some  awful,  name- 
less disappointment. 

"  Yes,  marm,"  he  said. 

After  a  blank  recoil,  she  sped  on,  the 
shamed  dread  of  a  burst  of  tears  hurrying  her 


Nature 

feet.  Once  hidden  in  the  woods,  she  dropped 
down  on  a  log  and  sobbed  recklessly. 

"It's  all  dreadful!"  she  stormed. 
"  Nothing  is  for  me,  nothing  is  ever  for  me !  " 
The  meaning  of  her  own  words  startled  and 
arrested  her.  She  repeated  them,  as  though 
listening  to  a  verdict,  then  cried  again,  dis- 
mally, in  poignant  self-pity:  "  Nothing,  noth- 
ing !  "  She  accepted  it  hopelessly.  Her  letter 
to  her  father  was  in  her  hand,  but  it  did  not 
occur  to  her  to  wonder  what  there  had  been  for 
him,  or  for  anyone  else.  To  her  young  wretch- 
edness, it  seemed  that  everyone  else  had  every- 
thing life  could  offer;  only  she  was  isolated  and 
a  failure. 

The  lamp  was  already  lighted  when 
she  dragged  herself  listlessly  up  the  trail  again, 
an  hour  later.  Her  mother's  eyebrows  curved 
delicately  at  sight  of  her  muddy  skirt. 

"Why  didn't  you  hold  it  up?"  she 
asked,  not  in  reproof,  but  in  cool  wonder  that 
anyone  could  be  so  unfastidious. 

"  It  was  too  much  trouble,"  was  the 
sullen  answer.  Mrs.  Russell's  glance  touched 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

for  an  instant  the  pale,  heavy  face,  then  fell  to 
the  book  in  her  hand. 

"  I  don't  expect  you  to  like  it,  Louise," 
she  began,  smoothing  the  page  back  with  her 
palm  before  lifting  it  into  the  light,  "  but  I 
have  engaged  a  guide  to  take  you  for  an  excur- 
sion every  day.  Annie  will  go,  too.  He  will 
be  here  at  ten  in  the  morning."  And  she  would 
have  begun  reading,  but  Louise's  startled  ques- 
tions interrupted: 

"  A  guide?    Where  did  you  get  him?  " 

"  He  came  this  afternoon  with  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Harrison — they  are  breaking  up 
their  camp  at  Big  Moose,  and  she  thought  we 
might  need  some  one.  His  name  is  Anderson." 
She  waited  courteously  for  the  further  questions 
with  which  her  daughter  was  evidently  strug- 
gling. 

"  Did  he — was  he — "  she  could  not  ask 
— "  was  he  beautiful  as  a  god?"  and  so  con- 
cluded lamely,  "You  liked  his  looks?  " 

u  Naturally;  or  I  should  not  have  en- 
gaged him." 

Louise  turned  dazedly  to  her  own  room. 
[200] 


Nature 

"  He's  only  a  guide,"  she  told  herself, 
but  that  strange  sense  of  blank  loss  was  tossed 
aside  like  her  wet  skirt.  Life  was  not  so  empty, 
after  all.  It  would  be  something  just  to  look 
on  beauty  like  that. 

It  was  something.  It  was  an  exhilara- 
tion keen  as  though  the  thin,  sharp,  dry  sunlight 
were  champagne  to  the  spirit  when  she  peeped 
out  between  the  curtains  at  ten  o'clock  the  next 
morning  and  saw  him  standing  at  his  magnifi- 
cent ease.  Annie,  her  spun  amber  hair  bared 
to  the  brightness,  her  garb  of  neat  maidservant 
oddly  incongruous  with  her  alpenstock,  was  talk- 
ing to  him  with  a  slightly  critical  patronage. 

"  I'd  die  for  lonesomeness  up  here,  but 
I  don't  suppose  you're  used  to  anything  differ- 
ent," she  was  saying. 

Louise  stepped  out  with  a  suppressed 
skip.  She  no  more  understood  her  sudden  gay- 
ety  than  she  understood  the  depression  of  the 
past  months.  Perhaps  she  had  never  understood 
anything  about  herself  very  clearly  since  her 
mother's  gashing  verdict  on  the  subject  of 
"  coming  out  " — poor,  impulsive,  trustful  little 
[201] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

girl  in  grown-up  clothes  that  she  was !  She  had 
lived  three  years  under  the  saddening  shadow 
of  that  word  "  failure  "  without  once  dreaming 
that  anything  might  have  been  done  about  it. 
Now  all  she  realized  was  that,  suddenly,  it  was 
fun  to  be  alive.  Her  voice  had  a  brimming 
gayety. 

"  Good  morning,  Anderson !  "  The 
passive  sobriety  of  his  "  Morning!  "  did  not 
chill  her;  she  felt  curiously  like  a  joyous  mote 
dancing  before  a  kindly,  solemn  sun.  '  Where 
shall  you  take  us?  "  she  asked,  happily  ready 
for  anything. 

He  reflected,  and  she  watched  him, 
thinking,  "  One  could  die  for  a  man  like  that!  " 

"Been  up  the  Ridge  yet?"  he  finally 
asked. 

"  No.  I've  never  been  anywhere — in 
all  my  life,"  she  wanted  to  add. 

"  Guess  that'll  do,  then." 

They  set  out  up  a  rocky  trail,   Annie 

falling  respectfully  to  the  rear,  but  muttering 

disrespectfully  as  stones  slipped  under  her  feet 

and    briers    scratched    her    sleeve.    Anderson 

[202] 


Nature 

went  ahead  of  Louise  in  Indian  silence,  paus- 
ing occasionally  to  indicate  that  there  was  a 
view,  and  she  could  look  at  it  if  she  liked.  Her 
bursts  of  enthusiasm  were  accepted  placidly  as 
manifestations  appropriate  to  a  woman  but 
scarcely  interesting  to  a  man.  He  utilized  the 
pauses  by  breaking  twigs  and  closely  examining 
the  fracture,  turning  over  bits  of  rock  with 
thoughtful  interest,  running  his  hand  inquir- 
ingly along  the  trunks  of  trees. 

"  What  is  it  you  are  looking  for? 
What  are  you  finding  out?"  she  finally  asked 
him. 

"  W-e-11,  I — don't — know,"  was  the 
slow  answer.  "  Kind  of  a  habit,  I  guess."  He 
picked  up  a  tiny  brown  pine-cone  and  held  it 
out  to  her  on  his  great  palm.  "  Nice  little  fel- 
ler, ain't  it !  "  he  commented. 

"  Intelligent  about  nature  and  probably 
kind  to  children"  some  voice  deep  down  in 
Louise's  consciousness  seemed  to  record.  She 
took  the  cone  with  a  rather  absurd  enthusiasm 
and  presently  slipped  it  into  her  pocket. 

The  trail  grew  steep  and  hot  and  Annie 
[203] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

spluttered  into  open  complaint.  Louise  would 
have  laughed  at  her,  but  Anderson  stepped 
back  and  helped  her  in  a  way  that  made  the 
secret  voice  cry  out,  "Patient,  chivalrous!" 
with  a  ring  of  triumph.  The  words  were  ad- 
dressed more  to  a  disdainful  image  of  her 
mother  than  to  herself. 

Their  climb  terminated  on  a  rocky  shelf 
that  hung  over  a  lavish  prospect  of  lakes  and 
glowing  hillsides.  Here  they  sat  and  rested, 
Annie  prophetically  mending  a  rent  in  her  skirt 
while  their  guide  explored  a  crevice  with  his 
jackknife.  Louise's  eyes  soon  left  the  view  for 
the  unconscious  profile  on  her  left,  and  again 
the  man's  beauty  brought  that  baffling  sense  of 
pain  and  loss.  Was  there  no  way  that  a  creature 
like  this  could  be  reclaimed — could  be  made 
over  into  a  gentleman? 

"  Have  you  always  lived  up  here?  "  she 
asked. 

*  Yes,    marm,"   was   the    disheartening 
answer.     The  recoil  left  her  silent,  but  Annie 
was  moved  to  know — with  a  shudder — how  he 
existed  through  the  winters. 
[204] 


Nature 

"  Oh,  the  winters  are  first  rate,"  he  ex- 
plained, looking  across  indulgently  at  the  taut, 
protesting  figure.  "  There's  hunt'n'  and  log- 
g'n'  daytimes,  and  I  read  a  lot.  I'm  a  great 
hand  for  books." 

"Oh,  you  are?"  Louise's  dulled  face 
was  relit.  "  What  sort  of  books?  "  "A  man 
who  reads  can  become  anything"  the  secret 
voice  was  declaring. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  the  life  of  General 
Ulysses  S.  Grant?" 

"  His  autobiography?     Yes,  indeed." 

"  Ain't  that  a  book,  though !  And  I've 
read  General  Sherman's  life,  and  two  books 
about  George  Washington.  I  admire  great 
men,"  he  concluded  simply.  In  the  glamour  of 
the  moment,  this  seemed  to  her  a  striking  sen- 
timent. 

"  I  do,  too,"  she  assented  with  enthusi- 
asm. "  Perhaps  we  have  some  books  at  the 
cabin  that  you  would  enjoy." 

"  I'd  like  to  try  'em  first-rate,"  he  as- 
sented; and  the  secret  voice  added  a  proud 
"Intellectually  ambitious!"  to  its  testimony. 
[205] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Read'n's  a  great  thing,"  he  went  on,  his  won- 
derful face  gravely  kindled.  "  Why,  y'know, 
if  you  was  to  offer  me  my  choice  of  a  book  or  a 
turkey  dinner,  I'd  take  the  book !  " 

It  was  an  admirable  choice,  but  elation 
fell  dismally,  and  the  secret  voice  had  nothing 
to  say.  After  a  chilled  silence,  Louise  rose. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  she  said  sadly, 
and  started  on  ahead.  The  guide  followed 
with  Annie,  who  needed  incessant  help  and 
gave  little  thanks  for  it. 

A  week  of  sun  and  wind,  of  lake  and 
mountain,  obviously  did  marvels  for  Louise. 
Her  step  lost  its  protesting  drag,  she  laughed 
easily  and  forgot  her  manifold  complaints. 
Sometimes,  with  hair  roughened  and  color 
blown  into  her  cheeks,  she  looked  almost  pretty, 
and  she  knew  it,  and  rejoiced.  The  secret  voice 
had  swelled  to  a  steady  chorus  of  praise;  and 
surely,  if  all  the  splendors  of  character  as  well 
as  of  physique  belong  to  a  man — her  thoughts 
usually  broke  off  here,  leaving  her  gasping;  but 
she  was  given  to  small  flings  at  social  position 
and  the  minor  advantages  in  these  days. 

[206] 


Nature 

Sunday  brought  a  gap  in  the  excursions, 
and  a  corresponding  gap  in  her  mood.  Doubts 
that  the  excitement  of  the  daily  encounter  kept 
down  had  their  chance  now,  and  took  it  relent- 
lessly. In  the  late  afternoon,  after  an  unhappy 
walk  by  herself,  she  went  desperately  to  her 
mother. 

"  Mother!  Don't  people  sometimes 
marry  people  of — of  a  totally  different  class  of 
life?" 

"  I  believe  they  do." 

"  And  suppose  that — that  the  heart  and 
character  are  all  right — do  you  think  that  a 
lack  of  education  is  a — a  fatal  barrier?1' 
Louise's  face  was  burning  with  eagerness. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do,  Louise.  You  see,  if 
a  man  marries  a  woman  of  no  advantages,  he 
can't  go  on,  himself.  He  will  always  be  held 
down  by  her." 

"  But  suppose  he  didn't  want  to  go 
on?  "  she  burst  out.  "  Suppose  he  wanted  to — 
to  be  a  peasant,  too,  and  lead  a  peasant's  life 
with  her?  Suppose  that  would  make  him  abso- 
lutely happy?  Then  wouldn't  it  be  all  right?  " 
[207] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  For  a  few  months — perhaps  a  year. 
Not  longer." 

"  I  think  that  is  cynical,"  Louise  pro- 
tested hotly.  "  Carrie  Madden  married  her 
father's  chauffeur,"  she  added,  as  her  mother 
attempted  no  defense. 

"  And  have  you  any  knowledge  as  to 
how  Carrie  Madden  is  liking  it?" 

"  No,"  Louise  had  to  admit,  turning 
restlessly  away.  She  presently  wandered  out  to 
the  kitchen,  where  Annie,  trim  and  blue- 
aproned,  was  preparing  supper.  The  bright 
pine  walls  and  Annie's  bright  head  shone  in  the 
lamplight,  the  gay  red  apples  in  her  lap,  chang- 
ing to  fresh-cut  white  under  her  brisk  hands, 
accented  her  sharp  prettiness;  but  Louise  was 
too  self-absorbed  to  appreciate  the  picture. 
She  perched  on  a  corner  of  the  table  and  helped 
herself  to  a  slice  of  apple. 

;<  We  are  going  to  row  up  to  the  falls 
to-morrow,"  she  announced,  for  the  sheer  pleas- 
ure of  hearing  the  news  herself.  "  We'll  have 
lunch  there." 

"  If  we   don't  tip   over  first."     Annie 

[208] 


Nature 

deeply  distrusted  the  slender  boats  of  the  re- 
gion. 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  Nothing  could  go 
wrong  with  Anderson  in  charge."  Louise  spoke 
with  happy  pride.  "  Did  you  ever  see  anyone 
so  strong?  " 

"  Well,  he'd  ought  to  be — big  clodhop- 
per like  that,"  was  the  grudging  response. 

"  He  isn't  a  clodhopper,  Annie!  He  is 
the  most  perfectly  graceful  man  I  have  ever 
seen.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about." 

Annie  shifted  her  ground  of  attack. 
"  He's  that  stiff  and  solemn !  I  like  a  man  with 
some  go  to  him,  and  a  mustache." 

"And  curly  blond  hair?"  Louise  sug- 
gested ironically. 

"Yes,  that's  it;  and  a  tongue  to  give 
you  a  good  smart  answer."  Annie's  nod  seemed 
to  be  directed  affirmatively  toward  some  spe- 
cial image,  but  was  received  full  by  their  guide 
himself,  who  appeared  at  that  moment  in  the 
square  of  light  that  fell  across  the  threshold. 
Louise  again  had  that  sense  of  seeing  the  blue 
[209] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

of  his  eyes  before  she  saw  the  eyes  themselves, 
and  a  flush  touched  her  face,  leaving  it  lit  and 
quickened.  The  guide  had  halted  at  sight  of 
her,  and  he,  too,  showed  an  unmistakable  blush. 
He  stopped  awkwardly  outside,  displaying  a 
little  battered  brown  volume. 

"  I  thought  I'd  bring  it  back.  I  liked 
it  a  lot,"  he  blurted  out  in  hasty  excuse.  His 
embarrassment  startled  and  thrilled  her.  With 
a  new  and  brilliant  sense  of  ease,  she  held  out 
her  hand  for  the  book  without  rising,  and  so 
obliged  him  to  come  in.  He  did  not  even 
glance  at  Annie,  whose  brisk  efficiency  had 
taken  on  a  tinge  of  conscious  superiority. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  liked  *  Walden.' 
My  father  is  devoted  to  it,"  Louise  rejoiced. 

"  I  liked  about  the  feller  build'n'  his 
own  house,"  he  explained  conscientiously. 
"  That's  the  part  that  took  me." 

She  skimmed  gayly  away  from  further 
inquiry  into  Thoreau's  success.  "  I  must  get 
you  something  else,"  she  said,  springing  up. 
"  Wouldn't  you  like  me  to?  " 

"  First-rate,  thank  you."  He  was  still 
[210] 


Nature 

unwontedly  constrained,  and  she  flew  off  with 
a  thought  of  giving  him  time.  She  needed  time 
herself,  for  that  betraying  flush  of  his  had 
swept  her  triumphantly  over  the  day's  barrier 
of  doubts. 

"  Mother,  Anderson  likes  '  Walden,'  " 
she  cried.  Mrs.  Russell  did  not  seem  ade- 
quately impressed  by  the  news,  so  Louise  re- 
peated and  dwelt  on  it.  "  And  I've  never  even 
read  it  through  myself!"  she  exulted  as  she 
turned  back  to  the  kitchen.  "  He  is  no  common 
guide,  you  know !  " 

Mrs.  Russell  looked  after  her  with  a 
slightly  puzzled  expression.  Even  after  she 
had  returned  to  her  book,  a  frown  still  lingered 
about  her  eyes. 

Another  long  week  went  by,  and  the 
mote  still  danced  in  the  solemn,  kindly  sunlight. 
Louise  had  ceased  arguing  and  cataloguing 
traits,  ceased  struggling  with  decisions,  and 
given  herself  wholly  over  to  the  magic  of  the 
hour.  And  yet,  while  her  heart  stirred,  her 
mind  stayed  curiously  unawakened.  No  child 
of  eight  ever  dreamed  more  simply  of  a  play- 

[211] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

house  in  the  woods;  Anderson's  part  therein 
was  chiefly  grave  blue  eyes  through  the  dusk,  a 
profile  against  the  sky.  The  only  unhappy  mo- 
ments came  when  her  mother  stepped  out  to 
speak  to  him,  as  she  did  almost  daily,  in  her 
serene  guise  of  fine  lady  consulting  with  excel- 
lent servitor.  Then  Louise  winced  and  suffered 
and  secretly  cried  out  against  the  unfairness  of 
a  world  that  permitted  social  chasms.  The 
very  obviousness  of  the  chasm  had  evidently 
smoothed  the  frown  out  of  Mrs.  Russell's 
thoughts ;  she  had  forgotten  her  momentary  dis- 
comfort. 

She  was  struck  down,  at  the  week's  end, 
by  one  of  her  blinding  headaches.  Louise,  with 
a  heavy  heart,  offered  to  stay  in  and  wait  on 
her,  but  was  told  with  wan  courtesy  that  Annie 
would  do  it  better. 

"  Get  Anderson  to  take  you  out  on  the 
lake  for  an  hour  or  two,"  she  was  commanded. 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  miss  any  good  you  can 
get." 

Concern  for  the  headache  was  physi- 
cally impossible  after  that.  Louise  slipped  off 
[212] 


Nature 

to  her  room  and,  for  the  first  time,  cast  aside 
the  canvas  and  flannel  of  their  daily  excursion. 
It  was  not  warm  enough  for  summer  dresses, 
but  with  furtive  haste  she  chose  a  pale  pink 
linen,  suited  to  a  garden  party,  and  managed  to 
hook  it  up  unaided,  having  a  shamed  dread  of 
comment. 

Anderson  blinked  a  little  as  she  came 
out,  and  she  hastened  to  explain. 

"  We  are  only  going  to  row  for  an  hour 
or  two,  Anderson.  My  mother  has  a  headache, 
and  Annie  can't  come.  I  must  be  back  for 
luncheon." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  bring  along  a 
coat?"  he  suggested.  "  Kinder  sharp  this 
morning." 

Louise  was  growing  up.  A  week  be- 
fore she  would  have  protested  that  she  was 
"roasting";  now  she  smiled  and  made  frank 
confession : 

"  But  I  look  so  much  nicer  without  it !  " 

"  Won't  nobody  see  you,"  was  the  mat- 
ter-of-fact reply. 

"Nobody?" 

[213] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Oh,  I  guess  I  don't  count." 

Joy  suddenly  ran  over  in  effervescent 
laughter.  "  Oh,  don't  you?"  she  cried  and 
flew  down  the  path. 

Anderson  picked  up  a  shawl  that  was 
lying  over  the  rail  and  followed  at  his  usual 
sober  pace. 

Mrs.  Russell,  who  had  been  standing  at 
her  bedroom  window  for  the  sake  of  the  cool 
air  on  her  head,  sank  quickly  into  a  chair  as  her 
daughter  disappeared.  The  frown  was  back  in 
good  earnest,  a  frown  of  offense  and  repulsion, 
but  also  of  dismay.  She  sat  for  a  bewildered 
half  hour  with  cold  hands  clinging  to  her  hot 
head,  and  murmuring,  "  Oh,  impossible!"  at 
intervals.  Then  she  rose  and  summoned  the 
maid. 

[<  We  are  going  back  to  town  to-mor- 
row, Annie.  Please  begin  to  pack  up." 

;<  Well,  that's  good  news,  anyhow," 
was  the  lively  comment. 

The  morning  dragged  by,  and  luncheon 
time  came,  but  Louise  had  not  returned.  Mrs. 
Russell,  ignoring  her  headache,  went  down  to 

[214] 


Nature 

the  landing  to  look  for  her.  The  lake  was  long 
and  winding,  and  set  with  little  islands  that 
obstructed  the  view;  but  there  was  no  boat  in 
sight. 

"  It's  a  mercy  if  they  haven't  tipped 
over,"  was  Annie's  cheering  comment  as  she 
came  slowly  up  the  trail  again.  "  Little  boats 
like  them — "  but  some  look  in  her  mistress's 
face  checked  her.  "They'll  be  all  right,"  she 
added  consolingly.  "  Don't  you  worry,  now. 
They'll  be  here  in  no  time." 

Mrs.  Russell  turned  in  silence  to  her 
own  room  and  shut  the  door.  It  was  not  the 
fragility  of  little  boats  that  was  haunting  her 
eyes  and  drawing  her  pale  lips;  it  was  her 
daughter's  laugh  and  voice,  the  vivid  change 
in  her  of  late,  some  half-forgotten  words  of  a 
week  ago:  "  Carrie  Madden  married  her  fath- 
er's chauffeur — "  How  fastidiously  she  had 
drawn  away  from  that  vulgar  event,  when 
everyone  else  was  enjoying  the  shock!  Some 
one  in  her  hearing  had  blamed  Carrie's  parents. 
"  They  never  gave  her  any  fun,  and  a  girl  has 
to  have  something — it's  nature !  "  She  had  met 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

the  explanation  with  a  glance  of  disdain,  but 
she  could  not  call  it  up  now.  She  could  only 
look  frightened. 

Three  o'clock  came,  and  four.  If  there 
had  been  another  boat,  she  would  have  set  out 
herself  in  search;  but  the  last  neighbor  had 
closed  his  camp  and  gone,  and  she  shrank  un- 
speakably from  turning  to  the  little  village. 
Annie,  touched  by  her  silent  distress,  haunted 
the  landing,  and  she  wandered  back  and  forth 
through  the  empty  house,  long  and  trailing, 
like  some  tormented  spirit.  Happening  to 
pause  in  her  daughter's  room,  her  eyes,  absent 
at  first,  fell  on  a  half-open  drawer.  A  sharp 
realization  that  it  had  been  emptied  smote 
her  to  gray-white.  She  caught  open  another 
drawer;  that,  too,  had  been  partially  emptied 
— and  for  the  moment  she  forgot  that  she  had 
told  Annie  to  pack.  "  To  be  a  peasant,  too — 
to  lead  a  peasant's  life — "  the  words  whirled 
about  her  as  she  crouched  down  on  the  bed, 
holding  dizzily  to  the  footrail.  Then  she  heard 
steps  flying  up  the  path.  Annie's  voice  called 
from  the  porch: 


Nature 

1  They're  coming,  Mrs.  Russell,  they're 
coming!     They're  all  right  this  time!  " 

Louise  had  found  her  guide  even  more 
silent  than  usual  when  they  set  off  that  morn- 
ing, and  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  were  lines 
of  sadness  in  his  face.  Her  Greek  god  had 
acquired  some  touch  of  modern  world-weari- 
ness, and  with  it  the  modern  appeal  of  pathos. 
The  effervescence  that  had  run  over  in  pink 
linen  and  crude  impulses  to  flirtation  died  down, 
and  she  emerged  as  grave  as  he,  but  moved  with 
a  new  form  of  recklessness,  a  dangerous  reck- 
lessness that  believed  itself  a  higher  wisdom, 
and  that  declared  with  deceptive  calm  that 
youth  and  beauty  and  goodness  were  all  that 
any  heart  could  need,  and  that  for  these  the 
world  would  be  well  lost.  For  nearly  an  hour 
she  let  him  row  in  silence,  hoping  for  some 
word  or  sign;  then  she  had  to  speak. 

"  Why  did  you  say  that  you  don't 
count?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

"  Guess  it's  the  truth." 

"Why  shouldn't  you  count?" 
[217] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Oh,  I'm  just  a  rough  feller,  I  know!  " 
His  eyes,  lifted  to  hers,  frankly  confessed  his 
trouble,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him,  dizzy- 
ingly. 

"  You  are  a  man"  she  said  tremulously, 
"  a  strong,  brave,  beautiful  man.  Nothing  on 
earth  counts  like  that." 

"  For  cuttV  down  a  tree,  perhaps.  But 
for  making  a  lady  look  at  you  twice — "  He 
broke  off  with  a  despondent  motion  of  his  head. 
"  I  got  to  live  up  here,  you  know.  Down  in 
cities  I'd  be  nowhere." 

She  glanced  from  right  to  left,  at  the 
sparkling  water,  the  shadowing  mountains,  and 
drew  a  deep  breath  of  clean  autumn.  Her 
hands  impulsively  went  out  to  it. 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  glorious  to  live  up 
here!  "  she  cried.  He  stopped  rowing  to  look 
at  her  intently. 

"  Do  you  really  think  I  got  a  chance?  " 
he  demanded  in  a  low  voice.  The  color  swept 
so  burningly  across  her  face  that  she  hastily 
averted  it.  She  could  not  answer,  for  some 
distressful  voice  in  her  was  crying  out,  "  No, 

[218] 


Nature 

no !  "  like  a  child  in  panic.  "  That  ain't  quite 
fair — I  ask  your  pardon,"  he  added  quickly. 
"  Only,  as  you  see  her  every  day,  I  thought  she 
might  have  said  something — she's  never  give 
me  a  word  of  encouragement." 

Louise  lifted  a  strained,  startled  face. 
"  I — know  whom  you  mean,  of  course,"  she 
faltered. 

"  Yes'rri — Annie."  He  spoke  the  name 
reverently.  "  I  can't  believe  she'd  ever  look  at 
me.  She's  too  far  above  me."  And  he  took 
sadly  to  the  oars  again. 

Louise  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  Then 
she  raised  her  head  and  met  his  eyes  with  quiet 
composure.  "  I  am  afraid  Annie  would  not  be 
very  happy  up  here,"  she  assented  gently.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  there  was  a  suggestion 
of  her  mother  in  her  face  and  voice.  "  I  am  so 
sorry.  Now  I  think  we  must  go  back." 

He  met  the  verdict  with  one  long,  vio- 
lent sweep  of  the  oars,  careless,  for  once  in  his 
woodsman's  life,  of  where  he  was.  Nature 
seized  the  chance.  The  boat  leaped  ahead, 
then  stopped  with  shocking  suddenness  and  a 
[219] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

splintering  that  meant  trouble.  A  knife  of  rock 
had  gashed  open  the  side  below  the  water  line. 

"  Sit  still,"  said  Anderson  quietly.  One 
glance  placed  the  shore  and  his  course  to  it,  and 
then  the  boat  seemed  to  rise  as  though  for 
flight  at  the  plunge  of  the  oars.  "  Lift  your 
feet  and  that  shawl,"  he  added  a  moment  later 
as  a  bright  stream  gushed  down  the  flooring. 
Except  to  obey,  Louise  did  not  move  or  speak. 
The  boat  already  had  a  wounded  drag,  but  the 
shore  was  near,  and  he  flung  it  forward  till  it 
could  drop  harmlessly  on  the  strip  of  sand  that 
edged  the  pines.  He  was  over  the  side  in  an 
instant,  dragging  it  up  higher,  and  helping 
Louise  to  walk  the  seats  to  safety. 

"  You  did  splendidly.  I  am  not  even 
wet,"  she  assured  him,  as  calmly  as  her  mother 
might  have  spoken. 

"  To  think  of  me  running  on  that 
rock!  "  he  muttered  in  deep  disgust.  "  Known 
it  for  twenty  years.  Me !  " 

He  tipped  out  the  water  and  pulled  the 
boat  up  to  examine  the  break,  then  laid  it  down 
with  sober  finality  and  faced  the  question  of 
[220] 


Nature 

getting  home.  They  were  far  down  the  lake 
on  the  wrong  side,  five  or  six  miles  of  difficult 
scrambling  between  them  and  the  nearest  boat. 
The  trip  would  be  very  hard  for  a  lady;  but 
if  she  was  not  afraid  of  being  left,  he  could  do 
it  in  an  hour  or  two  and  come  back  for  her. 
She  assented  passively  to  the  arrangement,  and 
huddled  down  in  the  sunlight  on  the  little  strip 
of  beach  with  the  shawl  wrapped  about  her, 
longing  only  to  be  alone.  When  the  sounds  of 
his  quick  stride  had  died  away,  she  dropped  her 
face  into  her  arms  and  sat  so  still  that  the  little 
creatures  of  the  woods  ceased  to  take  any  ac- 
count of  her. 

Shame  burned  her  like  a  corrosive  acid. 
So  she  could  not  have  had  him  if  she  would 
— this  ignorant  laborer  to  whom  she  had 
dreamed  of  condescending!  It  was  Annie,  her 
mother's  servant,  who  had  won  him;  Annie — 
empty  little  piece  of  tart  prettiness  that  she  was 
— whom  he  had  thought  too  far  above  him, 
and  who  would  have  entirely  concurred  in  the 
opinion.  Ah,  after  all,  he  was  common,  com- 
mon !  And  she  had  dreamed  of — she  crouched 
[221] 


Mothers  and  Feathers 

and  clenched  her  hands  and  cried  out  brokenly 
against  the  thought.  "I  wouldn't  really  have 
done  it — oh,  I  wouldn't!"  she  wailed  to  her 
own  self-respect,  and  gradually  some  soothing 
knowledge  that  this  was  true  stole  over  her,  re- 
laxing her  tense  muscles  and  cooling  her  hot 
face.  "  No,  it  was  only  play.  I  never  could 
have,  really,"  she  assented  at  last,  with  a  long 
breath  of  reassurance.  The  pain  grew  easier 
after  that,  and  presently  a  creeping  sense  of 
relief,  of  freedom  and  escape,  made  itself 
known.  She  was  ashamed  of  it  at  first,  for  she 
had  called  that  heady  effervescence  love,  and 
was  mortified  to  find  it  a  mere  vanishing  froth; 
but  the  relief  grew  and  spread  until  it  could  no 
longer  be  ignored.  Life  was  not  over  for  her; 
a  new  stirring  in  her  pulses  suggested  that  it 
might  be  just  beginning.  Louise  was  coming 
at  last  to  understand  herself  and  the  world 
about  her;  the  universal  song  of  youth  sounded 
the  quick  notes  of  its  prelude. 

Mrs.    Russell   was   lying   down   in   her 
darkened  room  when  her  daughter  came  in,  and 
heard  her  explanation  in  silence. 
[222] 


Nature 

"  Your  head  must  be  awful,"  the  girl 
murmured  with  timid  compassion.  "  I  hope 
you  weren't  worried  about  me?  " 

"  A  little,"  she  answered  gently. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  came  languidly 
out  to  the  porch  where  Louise,  restored  to  flan- 
nel and  canvas,  was  watching  the  western  sky 
with  absent,  absorbed  eyes. 

"  You  know  that  we  are  going  to-mor- 
row, Louise?  "  she  queried.  Her  eyes  were  on 
her  daughter's  face  in  dread  of  some  betrayal, 
but  it  was  unwontedly  serene. 

"Yes.  I  am  so  glad!"  was  the  reas- 
suringly sincere  answer.  Then  Louise  stretched 
out  her  arms  with  fists  tightly  clenched.  "  Oh, 
I  do  hope  there  will  be  some  fun  this  winter!  " 
she  cried.  There  was  a  new  tension  in  her 
voice,  a  new  alertness  in  her  whole  body.  Mrs. 
Russell  sank  into  a  porch  chair. 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  to  have  some 
parties  for  you,"  she  said,  and  relief  had  given 
her  voice  a  new  kindness.  "  You  are  develop- 
ing, Louise:  I  think  you  might  have  a  very 
good  time,  socially.  We  must  see  about  some 
[223] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

evening  clothes  for  you  as  soon  as  we  get 
back." 

The  light  that  had  sprung  into  the  girl's 
face  deepened  and  glowed  into  a  wonderful 
radiance.  Sentence  had  been  commuted — there 
was  something  for  her,  too !  Her  eyes  brimmed 
with  warm  tears.  Forgetting  all  the  years  of 
constraint,  she  flung  herself  down  beside  her 
mother,  one  arm  across  her  knee. 

"  Oh,  mother,  let's  talk  about  my 
clothes !  "  she  cried. 


[224] 


XII 

The  Viper 

MRS.  PATTISON  was  flying  through  her 
domain  like  an  energetic  guardian  angel.  At 
nine  she  was  testing  the  water  for  the  baby's 
bath.  At  nine-three  she  was  in  the  kitchen,  in- 
venting a  new  dessert  from  the  remnants  of 
two  old  ones  and  a  stale  cake.  Five  minutes 
later  she  was  separating  two  small  combatants 
in  the  garden  and  inaugurating  a  new  experi- 
ment in  penalties  for  infractions  of  the  peace. 
On  her  way  upstairs  she  stopped  to  telephone 
to  the  butcher,  yet  she  arrived  at  the  bath  room 
in  time  to  receive  the  dripping  baby  into  a 
toweling  apron,  designed  by  herself,  and  to 
send  faithful  old  Maria  scurrying  to  the  beds. 

She  was  still  rubbing  as  if  at  a  baby- 
drying  competition  when  her  husband's  gentle, 
considerate  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs. 

"  I'm  in  the  nursery,  Charles !  "  she 
[225] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

called — or,  more  exactly,  shouted;  her  voice 
was  as  vitally  energetic  as  her  movements. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Pattison  came  in,  lifting 
his  coat  solicitously  as  he  stepped  over  a  small 
daughter  with  a  train  of  cars  in  the  doorway, 
and  removed  a  pile  of  baby-clothes  from  a 
chair,  holding  them  on  his  knee  as  he  sat  down. 
He  had  brought  a  troublesome  parish  problem 
to  submit  to  his  wife,  and  his  kindly,  near- 
sighted eyes  were  fixed  on  her  with  enormous 
faith  as  he  set  it  forth. 

"  We  must  not  be  too  hard  on  the  boy, 
when  we  know  what  his  father  was,"  he  con- 
cluded with  a  sigh  when  she  had  passed  judg- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Pattison,  who  was  brushing  the 
baby's  hair  straight  up  from  the  back  of  his 
neck  as  he  lunged  after  a  box  cover,  paused  to 
emphasize  objection  with  the  brush. 

"  Indeed,  I  have  more  blame  for  the 
virtuous,  stupid  mother  who  brought  him  up 
than  for  the  wicked  father  who  died  before  he 
was  born,"  she  declared.  "  I  tell  you,  Charles, 
there  is  a  lot  of  nonsense  talked  about  heredity. 

[226] 


The  Fiper 

Women  don't  know  how  to  bring  up  their  chil- 
dren, that's  all;  they  don't  give  whole-souled 
attention  to  it,  and  they  haven't  sound  theories, 
or  the  right  kind  of  inventiveness.  Why,  I'll 
bet  I  could  take  the  worst  little  slum  rat  you 
could  pick  up,  and  it  would  turn  out  just  as 
sweet  and  good  as  our  own  children.  Just  ex- 
actly !  "  And  she  slid  a  little  shirt  on  the  baby 
without  interrupting  his  enjoyment  of  the  box 
cover. 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  that!"  Mr. 
Pattison  spoke  with  troubled  intensity.  "  I 
wish  I  could  believe  it!  It  would  make  for 
hopefulness  as  nothing " 

"  Very  well,  then,  I'll  do  it."  Her  tone 
was  so  casual  that  an  outsider  would  have  be- 
lieved her  joking,  and  wondered  at  her  hus- 
band's instant  alarm. 

"Oh,  now,  Mary!  With  five  children 
already " 

She  waved  all  that  aside. 

"  It  would  be  worth  trying,  you  know," 
she  said,  her  increasing  excitement  showing 
only  in  the  accelerated  speed  with  which  the 
[227] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

baby  was  whisked  into  his  clothes.  "  I'll  find 
a  baby  boy  with  the  very  worst  inheritance  pos- 
sible— Josie  Colman  can  help  me.  And  if  I 
don't  make  a  good  little  citizen  of  him — here, 
take  Charles  a  moment.  I'm  going  to  call  up 
Josie !  " 

Mr.  Pattison  received  the  baby  and  ab- 
sently trotted  the  clean  clothes,  dismay  .written 
on  his  wide  forehead. 

"But,  Mary!     Do  you  realize " 

Mrs.  Pattison  spared  a  moment  to  cope 
with  her  husband's  distress,  looking  back  at  him 
from  the  doorway  with  a  comprehending  smile. 

"  Won't  it  be  a  pretty  good  deed, 
Charles,  to  rescue  a  child?  Aren't  you  ready 
for  your  share  of  it?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes !  But  it  is  you  that  I 
am  thinking " 

"  Oh,  me !  Nicest  experiment  I  ever 
had  in  my  life !  "  She  laughed  at  herself  as  she 
hurried  away. 

It  took  several  weeks  to  find  a  specimen 
sufficiently  unpromising  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Patti- 
son. Then,  one  afternoon,  she  came  home 

[228] 


The  Viper 

radiant,  to  set  up  a  new  crib  and  to  air  the 
present  baby's  outgrown  clothing.  Her  hus- 
band found  her  telling  the  assembled  family 
about  the  new  little  brother  who  was  coming  in 
the  morning.  Marian,  the  eldest,  who  remem- 
bered the  coming  of  the  last  little  brother,  was 
inclined  to  think  that  there  was  a  mistake  some- 
where; but  the  others  jumped  for  joy,  and  ran 
to  meet  their  father  with  the  splendid  news  of 
his  new  son.  Mrs.  Pattison  sent  them  away 
while  she  made  her  explanations. 

"  Nothing  could  be  better,"  she  assured 
him,  her  needle  flying  triumphantly  about  some 
little  worn  flannels.  "  He  is  three  weeks  old, 
the  child  of  a  sneak  thief  who  is  now  in  the 
penitentiary  for  the  third  time,  and  of  a  dis- 
solute servant  named  Katie  Sullivan,  who 
died  when  he  was  born.  Josie  heard  about  it 
through  a  friend  of  the  Howard  Grannises. 
The  girl  was  their  cook,  and  she  and  the  man 
took  away  most  of  the  family  plate  when  they 
cleared  out.  I'm  going  to  get  the  story  in  de- 
tail when  the  Grannises  come  back;  but  it's  bad 
enough  to  satisfy  anybody.  My  dear,  he  is  the 
[229] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

most  awful  little  thing!  I  can  scarcely  wait  to 
get  my  hands  on  him !  " 

Mr.  Pattison's  gentle  white  forehead 
showed  helpless  creases. 

"  You  are  sure  there  is  no  disease?  "  he 
began. 

"  Why,  Charles,  he's  just  a  little  disease 
himself — nothing  else!  But  there  isn't  any- 
thing that  can  hurt  the  others;  the  doctor  and 
I  have  been  all  over  him.  Give  me  five  years, 
and  then  we  shall  begin  to  see  where  this  mighty 
business  of  heredity  comes  in."  She  glanced  at 
the  clock,  then  sprang  up  and  opened  the  door. 
"  What  child  is  going  to  have  the  cleanest 
hands  for  supper?  "  she  called,  and  smiled  the 
smile  of  successful  generalship  at  the  ensuing 
scramble.  The  cleanest  hands  always  sat  in 
the  seat  of  honor,  which  had  arms,  and  received 
first  service. 

For  a  few  weeks  it  looked  as  if  the 
experiment  in  heredity  were  coming  to  an 
abrupt  end.  Then  sun  and  air,  cleanliness, 
nourishment,  and  devotion  began  to  blossom  in 
the  tiny  form.  Having  finally  made  up  his 

[23°] 


The  Viper 

mind  to  gain,  the  waif  gained  generously,  put- 
ting on  flesh  and  color,  and  even  unexpected 
charms.  At  six  months  he  was  a  pretty  baby 
with  large,  placid  gray  eyes  rimmed  with 
black,  and  a  bubbling  laugh.  At  two  years  he 
was  so  splendid,  so  loving  and  lovable,  that 
any  one  but  Mrs.  Pattison  would  have  forgot- 
ten that  he  was  an  experiment  in  heredity.  She 
loved  him  dearly,  but  she  loved  her  experiment 
as  well. 

"  Not  much  sign  of  the  jail  bird  about 
him  yet,"  she  announced  to  her  husband  at 
happy  intervals. 

For  four  years  little  Joseph  proved  an 
ascending  climax  of  sweetness  and  light.  He 
was  chivalrous,  he  was  honest,  generous,  warm 
to  all  his  world.  His  very  faults  showed  no- 
bility. When  his  fifth  birthday  approached 
without  bringing  to  light  any  sign  of  the  an- 
cestral taint,  Mrs.  Pattison  felt  that  the  time 
had  come  for  action.  The  rescue  of  this  one 
child  was  only  the  beginning  of  her  task;  it  was 
for  all  the  branded  waifs  in  Christendom  that 
she  had  been  working. 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Her  husband  heard  her  plans  with  gen- 
tle distress. 

"  But,  Mary,"  he  protested,  "  do  we 
want  people  to  be  told  that  our  dear  little 
boy " 

'  Yes,"  was  the  firm  interruption.  Mrs. 
Pattison  always  knew  how  sentences  were  go- 
ing to  end.  "  Yes;  we  want  people  to  be  told 
that  his  father  was  a  sneak  thief  and  his  mother 
was  worse — to  know  all  that,  and  then  just  to 
look  at  him !  Why,  Charles,  that  is  the  very 
thing  that  I  have  done  it  for!  " 

"Yes,  dear.  I  understand;  and,  of 
course,  you  are  right.  Only " 

"  That  is  his  debt  to  the  world — to  help 
free  it  from  the  false  burden  of  heredity.  I 
shall  make  him  understand  it  when  he  is  eight 
years  old.  Now  he  is  simply  an  unconscious 
illustration." 

Mrs.  Pattison  threw  a  kiss  from  the 
window  to  the  unconscious  illustration,  then  sat 
down  before  a  large  pad,  and  wrote  firmly 
across  the  first  sheet:  "The  Heredity  Bogy." 
Mr.  Pattison  hesitated  unhappily  for  a  mo- 
[232] 


The  Viper 

ment;  but  she  had  begun  to  write,  so  he  tip- 
toed away  without  speaking. 

The  Mothers'  Psychology  Club  was 
full  to  the  very  window  ledges.  It  was  not  a 
wholly  friendly  audience  that  faced  the  speaker. 
More  languid  mothers  were  not  always  in  sym- 
pathy with  Mrs.  Pattison  and  her  experiments; 
but  every  one  always  wanted  to  hear  her. 
There  might  be  murmurs  of  dissent,  but  there 
was  never  a  stir  of  inattention  after  her  bright- 
eyed,  headlong  speech  was  set  loose. 

This  particular  address  had  been  pre- 
paring for  five  years.  She  told  them  of  her 
hunt  for  the  most  hopeless  specimen  of  human 
infancy;  of  the  sneak  thief,  with  his  black  rec- 
ord, and  of  his  accomplice  in  the  theft,  who 
had  been  found  dying  in  well-earned  misery ;  of 
the  forlorn,  sickly  waif  who  had  satisfied  her 
worst  requirements;  of  the  struggle  to  keep  the 
child  alive,  and  then  of  the  blossoming  heart 
and  soul  of  this  little  Joseph,  born  of  the  slime, 
but  no  more  polluted  by  it  than  was  the  sound 
young  oak  polluted  by  the  ooze  at  its  root. 
[233] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  And  you  can  do  it,  too !  "  she  cried, 
with  a  swift  glance  at  her  watch.  "  Suppose 
each  one  of  you  three  hundred  intelligent 
women  took  a  waif  into  your  homes — took  it 
bravely  and  publicly — to  fight  this  bogy  of 
heredity  that  makes  people  drop  their  hands 
and  say,  '  What's  the  use?  What's  the  use?  '  " 
She  turned  slightly  toward  the  door.  "  I  am 
going  to  show  you  right  now  what's  the  use !  " 

The  door  opened,  and  old  Maria  in  her 
best  bonnet  appeared,  leading  little  Joseph, 
ruddy  and  shining  with  starched  whiteness,  by 
the  hand.  He  stared  dubiously  at  the  strange 
faces,  all  turned  his  way;  then  he  saw  the 
familiar  figure  on  the  platform,  and,  with  a 
crow  of  joy,  he  ran  forward,  tugged  up  the  two 
brief  steps,  and  flung  both  arms  about  his 
mother's  knees. 

No  coaching  could  have  produced  any- 
thing half  so  perfect.  There  was  a  touched 
gasp  in  the  audience,  and  then  came  a  burst  of 
clapping.  Mrs.  Pattison  lifted  the  child  to  the 
chair  beside  her  and  set  him  standing  on  its 
seat,  turning  him  to  the  house. 
[234] 


The  Viper 

11  See  how  they're  clapping,  dear,"  she 
said  to  reassure  him. 

Joseph,  seeing  the  hands  go,  promptly 
began  to  pat  his  own  fat  palms  together,  beam- 
ing down  at  them  in  his  joy  at  the  new  game, 
so  sweet  and  wholesome  and  unconscious  a  lit- 
tle figure  that  laughter  and  clapping  broke  out 
all  over  again,  and  several  women  began  to 
cry.  Then  they  all  started  to  their  feet  and 
surged  round  the  platform. 

"Ah,  if  I  had  not  three  children  al- 
ready !  "  sighed  one. 

"  I  had  five,"  said  Mrs.  Pattison. 

"  But  we  are  not  at  all  well  off.  We 
can't  be  sure  what  advantages — "  began  an- 
other. 

"  My  husband  is  a  poor  clergyman," 
was  the  quiet  answer. 

"  But  what  if  it  was  just  luck — this 
particular  angel?  "  urged  a  third. 

"  Try  it,  and  help  prove  that  it  was 
not." 

"  Oh,  I  will— I'll  take  one!  "  exclaimed 
an  eager  voice.  "  I'll  begin  looking  to-night!  " 

[235] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  So  will  I !  " 

"  So  will  I !  " 

"  And  I !  " 

"  My  husband  will  be— oh,  but  I  must 
do  it!" 

"I'll  take  two!'1 

The  enthusiasm  spread  and  flamed. 
They  were  eager  to  commit  themselves.  Mrs. 
Pattison  produced  a  great  sheet  of  paper,  and 
the  signatures  went  down  with  a  dash.  For 
those  who  did  not  know  how  to  go  about  it, 
she  had  lists  ready — addresses  of  foundling 
homes  and  maternity  hospitals,  notes  of  private 
cases.  Some  members  went  off  in  their  car- 
riages at  once  to  begin  on  the  good  work. 
Everyone  had  to  give  Joseph  a  kiss,  hygien- 
ically  planted  on  his  wide  forehead  or  the  soft 
nape  of  his  little  neck.  He  bore  it  with  his 
inexhaustible  friendliness;  then,  when  it  was 
time  to  go,  put  up  his  hand  to  lead  his  mother 
down  from  the  platform. 

"  I'm  right  here;  I  won't  let  you  fall," 
he  assured  her.  And  one  wavering  soul  ex- 
claimed, with  tears  in  her  eyes: 

[236] 


The  Viper 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Pattison,  put  me  down, 
too!" 

There  were  seventy-four  names  on  the 
list  when  the  meeting  was  over.  Nineteen 
wrote  that  night,  between  regret  and  relief, 
that  their  husbands  utterly  refused  consent;  but 
the  remaining  fifty-five  showed  gratifying  cour- 
age and  activity.  Baby  carriages  were  brought 
down  from  attics,  baby  linen  was  seen  bleach- 
ing on  the  barberry  bushes.  Twenty  copies  of 
"The  Young  Child  and  Its  Care"  were  or- 
dered by  mothers  whose  own  children  had  come 
in  the  pre-germ  days,  and  by  single  ladies  who 
had  been  swept  into  the  movement  from  the 
outside. 

At  the  end  of  five  weeks  there  was  not 
an  adoptable  infant  left  unclaimed  in  the  city, 
and  a  drag-net  had  been  thrown  over  the  dis- 
tant metropolis,  producing  a  wan  and  wailing 
little  bunch  of  human  flotsam.  The  public 
guardians,  accustomed  to  an  unvarying  demand 
for  curly  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  a  sober  inherit- 
ance, let  these  undesirables  go  with  astonished 
alacrity;  and  if  the  new  mother,  confronting 
[237] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

her  acquisition,  felt  her  heart  fail  her,  Mrs. 
Pattison  was  there  with  an  uncompromising 
photograph  showing  how  much  worse  Joseph 
was  at  three  weeks,  and  a  radiantly  contrasting 
likeness  of  Joseph  seven  months  later.  Soon 
she  was  making  daily  rounds  like  a  doctor,  to 
advise,  reassure,  and  congratulate;  and  the 
false  burden  of  heredity  seemed  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  lifted  from  the  weary  shoulders  of  man- 
kind. 

The  newspapers,  of  course,  took  up  the 
movement — some  humorously,  some  with  genu- 
ine enthusiasm.  Other  local  societies  begged 
for  addresses  on  adoptive  motherhood.  One 
sweet,  summery  afternoon,  the  postman  brought 
a  similar  request  from  the  great  W.  M.  D.  S. 
itself,  a  metropolitan  association  that  amalga- 
mated wife,  mother,  daughter,  and  sister,  and 
paid  its  lecturers  thirty-five  dollars  and  their 
expenses. 

Mrs.  Pattison  sat  down  on  the  porch  to 
consider  the  request,  her  eyes  bright  with  ex- 
citement, her  spirit  untouched  by  a  tremor  of 
warning.  Honeysuckle  bloomed  about  her, 

[238] 


The  Fiper 

and  the  two  smallest  boys  were  playing  hap- 
pily together  on  the  lawn  beneath.  Little  Jo- 
seph's abundant  sweetness  had  just  come  out  in 
a  cheerful — 

"  I'll  be  the  horse  if  you  like,  Charlie!  " 
and  Mrs.  Pattison  was  resolving  to  see  that 
Charles  took  no  more  than  his  fair  share  of  the 
driver's  cracking  whip,  when  a  caller  mounted 
the  steps.  For  a  moment  she  did  not  recognize 
the  grave,  distinguished  -  looking  gentleman 
whose  mustache  had  acquired  a  foreign  twist 
and  his  bow  a  foreign  emphasis;  then  she  put 
out  her  hand  with  a  glad  exclamation.  She  had 
been  wanting  to  see  Mr.  Howard  Grannis  for 
five  years. 

"  Yes,  we  are  home  at  last,"  he  said,  in 
answer  to  her  questions.  "  And,  Mrs.  Pattison, 
I  have  only  just  discovered  that  it  was  you  who 
adopted  poor  Katie  Sullivan's  child.  I  wanted 
to  ask  you  about  it." 

Silent  in  her  shining  pride,  she  nodded 

to  the  prancing  horse  on  the  lawn.    Her  visitor 

rose  and  stood  looking  down  over  his  folded 

arms  at  the  sturdy,  joyous  little  figure.     The 

[239] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

face  he  turned  back  to  his  hostess  was  deeply 
touched. 

"Splendid,  splendid!"  Mr.  Grannis 
evidently  meant  the  word  of  admiration  for  her 
as  well.  "  He  will  repay  you,  Mrs.  Pattison. 
His  mother  was  one  of  the  finest,  purest,  warm- 
est souls  I  have  ever  known." 

Mrs.  Pattison  turned  white. 

"His — mother?"   she  breathed. 

*  Yes — Katie  Sullivan.  She  lived  with 
us  seven  years — my  wife  brought  her  up,  and  I 
have  never  known  a  truer,  more  generous  na- 
ture. Too  trustful,  that  was  all;  and  a  villain 
got  hold  of  her."  Mr.  Grannin's  jaw  set.  "  He 
pretended  to  marry  her — pretended  that  there 
were  reasons  for  keeping  it  from  us — ah,  we 
ought  to  have  taken  better  care  of  her!  The 
night  of  the  theft,  when  she  found  out  what  he 
was,  she  ran  away,  broken-hearted,  poor  soul! 
We  could  not  find  her,  and  then  the  consulship 
took  us  away.  Of  course,  the  police  and  the 
newspapers  insisted  that  she  had  gone  with  the 
wretch,  but  we  knew  better — and  a  sad  little 
letter  telling  us  the  whole  tale  was  mailed  to 
[240] 


The  Viper 

us  just  before  her  death."  He  openly  wiped  his 
eyes.  "  I  knew  the  child  was  in  good  hands,  but 
I  didn't  know  how  good,"  he  added. 

Joseph's  rescuer  sat  rigidly  still,  her  face 
turned  toward  the  couple  on  the  lawn.  Charles 
tumbled  rather  hard  at  that  moment,  and  the 
horse  came  back  to  put  a  stubby  little  arm  over 
his  shoulders  and  make  anxious  inquiries. 

"  Ah,  he  is  like  Katie,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Grannis.  "  He  has  inherited  his  mother's  na- 
ture. He  will  be  a  great  joy  to  you,  Mrs.  Pat- 
tison!" 

Her  look  was  not  joyful.  From  a  neigh- 
boring house  came  the  thin,  flat  wail  of  early 
infancy.  A  baby  carriage  was  turning  in  at  the 
gate.  The  letter  from  the  W.  M.  D.  S.  stared 
up  at  her  from  her  knee.  She  drew  a  painful 
breath. 

"  So  his  mother  was  a  good  woman,  all 
the  time !  "  she  stammered. 

"  A  dear,  good  woman,"  said  Mr. 
Grannis. 

Mrs.  Pattison  stared  dazedly  on  the 
ruins  of  her  experiment,  on  the  task  before  her. 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Down  on  the  lawn,  little  Joseph,  beaming  en- 
couragement, turned  a  somersault  to  divert  the 
bruised  Charles;  and  suddenly  she  laughed. 

"The   viper !"    she   cried.      "  Oh,    the 
viper!" 


[242] 


XIII 

The  House  Beautiful 

THE  great  house  stood  blank  and  life- 
less in  the  early  darkness.  Rain  was  pouring 
down  the  gables,  turrets  and  towers  of  its  mas- 
sive roof;  its  red  sandstone  carvings  and  gar- 
goyles and  balconies  and  balustrades  were 
spouting  fountains,  its  wide  sheets  of  plate 
glass  were  rivers  of  rain.  There  was  a  curious 
look  of  stale  newness  about  the  place.  The 
mounds  of  clay  left  by  the  builders  on  either 
side  of  the  marble  steps  gleamed  yellow  under 
the  torrent,  but  they  were  worn  and  rounded, 
as  though  this  were  not  the  first  flood  they  had 
encountered,  and  the  boards  thrown  down  as 
a  footpath  between  steps  and  sidewalk  were 
black  with  time.  A  girl  in  rain  coat  and 
rubber  boots  crossed  them  adroitly,  evidently 
familiar  with  their  seesawing  tricks,  and,  let- 
ting herself  in  at  the  wrought  iron  and  glass 

[243] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

front  door,  pressed  a  button  just  inside.  The 
hall  that  sprang  into  light  was  an  odd  place  in 
which  to  be  tugging  off  rubber  boots.  Its  wide 
tracts  of  inlaid  floor,  spreading  off  into  dim 
drawing-rooms,  suggested  the  hushed  steps  of 
decorous  service,  and  the  polished  doors  seemed 
about  to  swing  back  under  the  hands  of  liveried 
coat  takers  and  tea  bearers.  But  not  a  step  or 
a  movement  sounded  after  the  front  door  had 
closed,  and  the  hall,  for  all  its  carved  panels 
and  lattices,  its  gildings  and  bronze  fixtures, 
was  totally  empty  of  movable  furnishings. 

The  girl  put  her  wet  things  in  a  closet 
near  the  front  door,  emerging  with  a  pair  of 
worn  slippers.  Stooping  to  put  these  on  seemed 
to  suggest  to  her  that  she  was  very  tired;  she 
slipped  down  to  the  floor,  her  back  against  the 
wall  and  arms  about  her  knees,  staring  resent- 
fully at  her  surroundings.  There  was  some- 
thing about  her  that  suggested  the  idealized 
college  girl  of  sympathetic  illustrations,  some- 
thing wholesome  and  sensible  and  square- 
shouldered  and,  above  all,  indomitably  honest. 
Truth  lay,  a  definite  beauty,  on  her  wide  fore- 
[244] 


The  House  Beautiful 

head,  candor  looked  out  of  her  open  glance, 
reliability  and  straightforwardness  had  squared 
her  chin  and  steadied  her  gravely  generous 
mouth.  It  was  not  at  this  moment  a  serene 
face.  She  looked  troubled,  galled  by  some 
bruising  thought,  and  her  eyes,  passing  from 
splendor  to  splendor,  were  dark  with  protest. 
At  last,  rousing  herself,  she  put  out  the  lights 
with  an  unfriendly  thrust  and  went  quickly  and 
surely  through  big,  dark  passages  till  she 
pushed  back  the  swing  door  of  a  lighted 
kitchen.  Its  range,  designed  to  give  a  chef 
scope,  stood  cold  and  rusting,  but  a  gas  stove 
was  in  full  blast,  and  over  it  bent  a  gray- 
bearded  man  in  an  apron,  frying  sausages  with 
desperate  attention  and  frequent  jerks  of  pro- 
testing hands  when  the  hot  fat  spouted.  In 
spite  of  his  alertness,  every  line  of  his  hand- 
some face  and  loose  figure  marked  him  easy- 
going, careless,  incorrigibly  good-humored. 

"  Hello,  Bertie,"  he  greeted  her,  with- 
out looking  up.  "  Don't  come  near  these  durn 
things;  they  bite." 

"Why    do    you    stay    so    close?"    she 

[245] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

asked  seriously,  beginning  to  set  a  small  table. 
"  Just  give  them  an  occasional  turn." 

"  Not  much.  I've  burned  dinners 
enough  to —  Look  here !  "  He  beckoned  her 
mysteriously  and  pointed  to  a  sausage  frying 
furiously  in  the  center  of  the  pan.  "  See  that 
one?  "  he  whispered.  "  I'm  calling  it  William 
F.  Gorman." 

She  turned  away  with  an  unwilling 
laugh  that  was  more  than  half  a  protest  at  his 
levity.  '*  The  paper  wants  me  to  interview 
William  F.  Gorman's  son,"  she  announced 
dryly.  "  He's  arriving  to-day  in  their  private 
car — to  work  his  way  up  from  the  bottom." 

Mr.  Rix  jeered.  "  Overalls  and  ten 
dollars  a  week — for  six  weeks.  I  know !  You 
going  to  do  it?  "  he  added. 

"Interview — that  man's  son!"  Her 
horror  made  him  glance  hastily  over  his  shoul- 
der with  a  soothing: 

"  Of  course  not,  course  not.  I  was  jok- 
ing. Wouldn't  have  you  for  dollars.  Only, 
you  know,  Bertie,"  he  reminded  her  presently, 
as  she  went  on  setting  the  table  in  silence, 

[246] 


The  House  Beautiful 

"  Gorman  hasn't  broken  any  laws  except  the 
Ten  Commandments  and  the  Golden  Rule  and 
the  Precepts  of  Mohammed.  He  couldn't  be 
jailed.  If  heaven  hadn't  given  you  a  careless 
old  fool  for  a  father,  you'd  be  lording  it  in  the 
pink  and  gold  southeast  suite  this  very  min- 
ute." Mention  of  the  pink  and  gold  suite 
seemed  to  restore  Berta's  good  humor. 

"  Oh,  well,  there's  a  good  side  to  every- 
thing," she  said  with  an  air  of  cheerful  incon- 
sequence. "  By  the  way,  we  may  get  a  lodger 
or  two  to-night.  Both  the  hotels  are  full,  and 
Mrs.  Loftus  hasn't  a  room  left.  She  called 
me  up  at  the  office  to  ask  if " 

A  bell  clipped  her  sentence. 

"  There  they  come,"  said  her  father  jo- 
vially. "  Tell  'em  they  can  have  the  second 
pantry  man's  apartment  and  the  personal 
maid's  lobby."  Though  it  was  nearly  a  year 
since  his  disastrous  palace  had  been  finished, 
Mr.  Rix  was  still  enjoying  the  enormous  joke 
of  the  plans. 

The  house  had  been  his  surprise  for 
Berta  when  she  came  out  of  college;  he  had 

[247] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  imported  the  best  men  from  Chicago  and 
turned  'em  loose,"  as  he  explained  nonchalantly 
to  his  daughter  while  she  still  sat  in  the  car- 
riage outside,  too  dazed  to  move.  "  Surprise 
of  your  life,  h'h?  "  he  had  burst  out,  giving  her 
a  happy  hug.  And,  indeed,  it  was.  Berta, 
fresh  from  four  years  of  classical  study  and 
a  summer  of  mellow  Europe,  had  followed 
from  room  to  room  of  florid  gorgeousness  in 
growing,  dumb  panic,  and  then,  on  their  re- 
turn to  the  vast,  scarlet-walled  drawing-room, 
had  crumpled  down  against  his  shoulder  in  an 
anguish  of  tears,  as  difficult  and  shamed  as  a 
boy's,  but  wrenched  out  of  her  very  soul  by  the 
pathos  of  the  monstrous  thing.  But,  before 
he  could  suspect  their  meaning,  she  had  taken 
her  part,  flung  away  her  splendid  birthright  of 
truthfulness  and  committed  herself,  heart  and 
soul,  to  a  pitying  lie. 

"It's  magnificent!"  she  gasped.  Ber- 
ta's  lightest  word  was  as  another's  oath,  and 
her  father  was  hilarious  at  his  success. 

"  Like  it,  do  you?  "  he  chuckled. 

"  Like  it !  "     Berta  lied  up  and  down, 

[248] 


The  H ou's e  Beautiful 

back  and  forth,  lied  wincing  in  every  fiber, 
scorched  with  shame  and  repugnance,  hating 
the  great  incubus  for  this  as  she  could  never 
have  hated  it  for  its  own  sins,  yet  lying  as 
steadily  as  though  she  had  had  weeks  in  which 
to  choose  her  course  instead  of  that  one  mo- 
ment of  heart-breaking  perception. 

"  It's  great,  stunning,  beautiful,"  she 
cried  over  and  over.  "  And  you  did  all  this 
for  me !  " 

"  Oil  did  it  all  for  you,"  was  the  jubi- 
lant answer.  "  Gorman  and  I  have  got  a  great 
thing  between  us,  Bertie.  This  House  Beautiful 
is  just  the  beginning  of  it.  You  wait!  " 

The  servants'  quarters  had  been  fur- 
nished, but  the  rest  was  waiting  for  Berta's 
hand,  and  the  two  had  gone  back  to  Chicago  a 
day  or  two  later,  prepared  with  monster  lists, 
over  which  they  wrangled,  with  tremendous 
laughter,  all  the  way.  Berta  did  not  do  things 
by  halves;  her  one  great  lie  was  as  uncompro- 
mising as  all  her  life's  honesty  had  been.  She 
spoke  of  the  house  as  one  speaks  of  a  triumph, 
and  let  him  plan  their  future  life  in  it  without 
[249] 


Mothers  and  Feathers 

one  outward  shudder,  though  the  florid  facade 
loomed  before  her  like  a  jail.  The  memory  of 
the  trip  ended  in  darkness.  From  the  crash 
till  the  sudden  peace  of  the  cool,  clean  hospital, 
Berta  knew  only  the  confused  horror  of  bad 
dreams.  Then  had  followed  the  months  of 
her  father's  slow  healing,  while  the  very  word 
business  was  forbidden,  and  William  F.  Gor- 
man, his  associate,  was  busy  after  the  manner 
of  his  kind.  Mr.  Rix  at  last  came'  feebly  home, 
without  furniture,  and  also,  strangely  enough, 
without  bitterness. 

"  Own  fault,"  he  said  philosophically. 
"  I  ought  to  have  done  my  rights  up  in  barbed 
wire — I  knew  Gorman  well  enough.  Well, 
we've  got  the  house  yet,  and  perhaps  some 
sucker  will  buy  it  before  they  foreclose."  He 
had  paused  on  the  sidewalk  in  front,  his  weight 
resting  on  his  daughter's  arm.  u  Grand,  isn't 
it!  "  he  said  confidentially. 

"Great!"  said  Berta. 

"  Pretty  low,  to  do  you  out  of  that!  " 
he  muttered.  It  was  the  nearest  that  he  ever 
came  to  a  complaint. 

[250] 


The  House  Beautiful 

The  bell  had  time  to  ring  again  before 
Berta  could  set  down  her  dishes,  take  off  her 
apron  and  make  her  way  through  the  long  pas- 
sages to  the  front  door.  It  opened  on  a  big, 
rain-coated  figure  whose  question  died  in  his 
throat  as  his  glance  passed  Berta  to  her  splen- 
did background. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry — I've  made  a  mis- 
take." In  spite  of  his  commanding  size,  he 
blushed  awkwardly.  "  A  Mrs.  Loftus  directed 

M 

"  Did  you  want  lodging?"  Berta 
threw  back  the  door.  "  We  furnish  rooms,  but 
not  meals.  Come  in,  please,"  she  added,  as  he 
still  seemed  inclined  to  stay  out  in  the  down- 
pour. He  obeyed  with  a  start,  dropping  his 
soaked  umbrella  across  the  threshold  and 
clutching  for  it  with  a  sigh  of  despair. 

"  If  anything  can  be  dropped,  I  drop 
it,"  he  stammered.  "  I  hope  it  hasn't — hurt 
your  floor." 

As  he  straightened  up,  Berta  realized 
with  satisfaction  that  at  last  here  was  some  one 
big  enough  for  the  hall;  he  made  a  visible  im- 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

pression  on  its  overpowering  spaciousness.  The 
shy  boyishness  of  his  big  face  made  her  smile 
as  she  took  the  umbrella  away  from  him  and 
set  it  in  the  coat  closet. 

"  We  generally  use  the  side  door,  but 
the  path  is  under  water  just  now,"  she  said  re- 
assuringly. "  You  wanted  a  room?  " 

His  worried  glance  had  paused  at  the 
bronze  Ceres  on  the  stairpost  with  her  clusters 
of  luminous  grapes. 

"  I  want  to  hire  a  room,"  he  explained 
with  difficulty.  "  I  know  you're  awfully  hos- 
pitable out  here  and  all  that,  but — I've  come  as 
a  workman,  and  I " 

"  Three  dollars  a  week  is  our  usual 
rate,"  she  interrupted  composedly.  "If  you 
want  a  sitting  room  that  will  be  two  dollars 
more.  I  will  show  you  what  we  have  if  you 
will  come  to  the  back  stairs.  We  don't  use  this 
part  of  the  house." 

She  pressed  buttons  as  they  went,  send- 
ing the  light  darting  ahead  of  them,  lighting 
up  rich  woods  crowded  with  carving,  decorated 
walls,  painted  ceilings,  grilled  arches,  wrought 
[252] 


The  House  Beautiful 

door  knobs;  there  did  not  seem  to  be  a  foot  of 
space  unadorned.  She  could  feel  the  groping 
astonishment  of  the  young  giant  at  her  back, 
but  it  did  not  amuse  her.  The  house  was  too 
sore  a  subject  for  any  aspect  of  it  to  make  her 
smile. 

1  You  have  a — a  handsome  house,"  he 
ventured  as  they  mounted  what  she  had  called 
the  back  stairs,  though  the  homely  title  was 
ludicrously  inappropriate. 

"  It  is  a  very  beautiful  house. "  Berta 
spoke  with  a  note  of  authority,  almost  of  de- 
fiance. 

"  Stunner,"  he  assented  with  a  hasty 
enthusiasm  that  made  her  warm  to  him.  "  You 
must  be — it  must  be  awful — "  he  broke  down, 
flushing  at  his  impulsive  intrusion.  "  I'm  very 
glad  you  had  a  room  for  me,"  he  finished 
lamely. 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  room 
marked  "  Butler's  Suite "  on  the  plans.  It 
had  three  windows,  a  bath  and  a  big  closet,  and 
the  lodger  looked  about  him  with  open  satis- 
faction as  he  set  down  his  bag. 

[253] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"This  is  great,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Of 
course  you  want  references.  My  name  is  Gor- 
man, and " 

All  the  friendly  liking  was  stricken  out 
of  Berta's  face. 

"  Are  you  related  to  William  F.  Gor- 
man ?  "  she  asked  sharply. 

"Why,  yes.  He  is  my  father."  He 
had  only  honest  surprise  for  her  hostility. 

"  My  father  is  Albert  Rix,"  she  said, 
and  looked  to  see  him  wince. 

"  Albert  Rix,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "  I 
know  the  name,  but — my  father  never  talks 
much,  Miss  Rix,  and  I've  been  at  college.  Did 
they  have  a  row?  " 

He  was  so  frankly  puzzled,  so  unsus- 
pecting of  his  father's  part,  that  the  hot  words 
would  not  be  said. 

"  You'd  better  ask  him  about  it,"  she 
muttered,  turning  away.  In  the  pause  that  fol- 
lowed, the  rain,  coming  in  mighty  dashes 
against  the  windows,  seemed  to  threaten  the 
glass. 

"  You  mean  that  your  father  wouldn't 

[254] 


The  House  Beautiful 

want  me  staying  here?"  He  could  not  quite 
grasp  anything  so  incredible. 

"  Oh,  he  wouldn't  mind — he  doesn't 
mind  anything!"  impatiently.  "It's  only 
I " 

He  picked  up  his  bag  again.  !<  I'm  so 
sorry,"  he  said,  and  waited  for  her  to  lead  the 
way  out.  For  all  her  righteous  anger,  she 
found  that  she  could  not;  and  blamed  the 
weather. 

"  You  can't  go  room  hunting  in  this 
rain,"  she  said  severely.  "  You  will  have  to 
stay,  now  that  you  are  here." 

He  still  hesitated,  looking  at  her  with 
troubled  eyes  that  were  as  honest  as  her  own. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  see  your  father,"  he 
said.  Berta  left  him  without  a  word. 

Dinner  waited  a  long  time  while  Mr. 
Rix  and  the  lodger  talked  upstairs.  At  last 
Berta  heard  steps  in  the  passage,  and  her  fath- 
er's genial  voice. 

"  Well,  I  was  down,  and  I  got  put 
out;"  he  was  evidently  repeating  himself. 
"  When  you  go  into  business,  you  take  the 

[255] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

chance  of  getting  business  treatment,  and  I've 
never  blamed  anyone  but  myself.  It's  natural 
that  my  daughter  should  feel  rather  hot,"  he 
added  confidentially.  u  You  can  see  what  a 
home  like  this  would  mean  to  a  girl  I  " 

"  I  should  say  so !  "  was  the  heavy  re- 
sponse. 

"  Well,  it's  all  right,"  urged  Mr,  Rix. 
"  Here's  a  key  for  you.  Sure  you  wouldn't 
rather  have  a  sausage  here  than  swim  for  it? 
Want  to  be  called  in  the  morning  or  anything? 
Well,  good  night.  Let  me  know  if  you  want 
anything;  if  I'm  not  in  the  kitchen,  you'll  find 
me  in  the  servants'  dining  room !  "  he  ended 
with  his  unfailing  laugh.  "  That's  a  first-rate 
young  fellow,  Berta,"  he  announced  from  the 
doorway.  "  He  plays  chess,  too." 

"  Oh,  do  come  to  dinner,"  said  Berta 
desperately. 

The  lodger  stayed,  but  evidently  not 
very  comfortably.  If  he  met  Berta  in  the  halls, 
he  flushed,  and  generally  contrived  to  drop 
something.  Mr.  Rix  persistently  dragged  him 
downstairs,  evenings,  for  long,  silent  games  of 

[256] 


The  House  Beautiful 

chess,  while  Berta,  equally  silent,  sat  near  them 
with  book  or  mending  or  with  her  tired  head 
dropped  back  and  her  eyes  closed.  She  spoke 
to  the  lodger  with  passive  courtesy  when  he 
came  and  went  and,  in  between,  there  was  not 
a  flicker  of  a  sign  that  the  two  were  even  re- 
motely conscious  of  each  other.  Yet,  if  Mr. 
Rix  left  the  room,  the  silence  lost  its  ease,  be- 
came rigid,  momentous.  The  third  time  that 
this  happened,  Gorman  turned  to  the  averted 
figure  with  an  abruptness  that  set  the  chessmen 
rolling. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  this 
chess,  Miss  Rix."  He  had  flushed,  but  his  voice 
was  courageous.  "  Your  father  seems  to  want 
it  so  much;  and  yet  for  me  to  intrude  on  you 
like  this — well,  I  can  see  how  it  must  look  to 
you !  " 

She  did  not  lift  her  head  from  her  book. 
"  Your  playing  with  him  is  a  great  kindness," 
she  said  coldly.  "  My  father  isn't  well  enough 
to  work  yet,  and  chess  is  the  only  game  he  cares 
for.  I  am  very  glad  to  have  you  come." 

He    sighed.      "  I'm    afraid   you    don't 

[257] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

mean  that,"  he  said.  Her  eyes  flashed  round  at 
him. 

"  I  don't  lie,"  she  said  shortly;  and 
then,  before  his  startled  apology  could  find 
words,  her  color  rose  and  rose  till  her  very 
forehead  was  flooded.  u  Except  on  one  sub- 
ject," she  muttered.  The  blush  and  the  un- 
willing admission  put  him  more  at  his  ease. 
She  looked  very  young  and  girlish  in  that  mo- 
ment of  distress. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  heartily.  "I 
didn't  mean  it  that  way.  I  have  tried  every  day 
to  find  another  room,"  he  presently  went  on,  re- 
arranging the  chessmen,  "  but,  between  the  oil 
boom  and  the  weather,  every  corner  of  the 
town  is  full.  I  have  hated  to  have  you  think 
that  I  was — simply  disregarding  your  feelings. 
Mrs.  Loftus  may  be  able  to  put  me  up  after 
to-morrow." 

There  was  a  question  under  the  state- 
ment, and,  after  a  moment's  struggle,  Berta 
acknowledged  it. 

"If  you  are  comfortable  here,  I  hope 
you  will  stay."  The  words  were  not  cordial, 

[258] 


The  House  Beautiful 

but  they  were  unmistakably  honest,  and  he 
looked  relieved. 

"  Thank  you,  then  I  will — at  least, 
until  my  father  gets  back." 

At  the  mention  of  his  father  she  re- 
turned pointedly  to  her  book.  When  Mr.  Rix 
reappeared,  the  mislaid  pipe  in  his  hand,  the 
two  were  apparently  as  unaware  of  each  other's 
existence  as  they  had  been  when  he  left. 

Young  Gorman  was  evidently  not 
afraid  of  work.  Berta,  collecting  "  oil  notes  " 
for  her  paper,  saw  him  day  after  day,  mud 
splashed  and  rubber  booted,  in  the  thick  of  the 
tumult,  directing  gangs  of  laborers  or  throwing 
his  own  great  bulk  against  a  difficulty  with  the 
trained  ease  of  a  famous  center  rush.  The  con- 
trast as  he  stood  talking  down  to  a  gnarled 
little  Italian  foreman  often  made  her  laugh  to 
herself.  She  was  more  at  peace  with  life,  more 
friendly  to  man — even  man  bearing  the  name 
of  Gorman — when  she  was  out  from  under  her 
own  overpowering  roof.  He,  too,  seemed 
freer  in  the  open.  His  face  turned  rather  grave 
at  sight  of  her,  but  he  neither  flushed  nor  stum- 

[259] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

bled  as  he  returned  her  slight  greeting.  She 
punctiliously  sought  all  her  information  from 
others  until  one  day  he  took  hold  of  the  situ- 
ation with  unexpected  force. 

He  had  come  on  her  struggling  across 
the  rough  ground  in  a  driving  rain,  trying  with 
both  hands  to  hold  her  umbrella  against  the 
wind,  and  the  sight  seemed  to  bring  some  hid- 
den protest  to  a  sudden  climax  of  anger.  He 
took  the  umbrella  from  her  with  one  hand  and 
with  the  other  turned  her  forcibly  to  the  shelter 
of  an  empty  shed. 

"  Why  on  earth  will  you  martyrize 
yourself?"  he  burst  out,  giving  the  umbrella 
a  wrathful  shake.  She  was  too  breathless  and 
surprised  to  answer.  '  You  know  perfectly  well 
that  you  could  get  every  bit  of  news  you  want 
any  evening,  without  leaving  your  chair,"  he 
scolded  on;  "but  your  confounded  pride,  and 
your  desire  to  rub  it  in — what's  the  sense  of 
punishing  me?" 

The  flushed,  rain-wet  face  betrayed  a 
momentary  confusion.  Berta  had  not  been 
sorry  that  Gorman's  son  should  see  how  hard 

[260] 


The  House  Beautiful 

Albert  Rix's  daughter  had  to  work,  but  she  had 
not  expected  him  to  recognize  this.  She  hastily 
collected  her  defenses. 

"  I  see  no  reason  that  you  should  do  my 
work,"  she  began. 

He  was  too  intent  on  what  he  had  to 
say  to  heed  that. 

"  I  know  how  you  feel,  of  course,"  he 
went  on.  "  Every  time  I  go  into  that — that 
magnificent  home  of  yours  I  can  tell  you  it 
wrings  me.  Not  that  I  judge  my  father!  I'm 
with  him,  you  know.  Even  if  I  might  not  act 
just  the  same  myself,  I'm  on  his  side — I  stand 
by  him  through  everything.  I  might  fight  him 
privately,  but  I'd  fight  for  him  outside,  just  as 
you  would  for  yours.  It's  natural  that  you 
should  hate  us,  but — you  know — I  think  you 
ought  to  be  big  enough  not  to.  You,  even  with 
all  you've  lost  right  there  before  you !  " 

Berta  had  always  seen  him  in  the  apolo- 
getic attitude  before,  and  the  unexpected  re- 
proof stung. 

"  It  isn't  for  myself,"  she  said  hotly. 
"  It's  for  him !  If  your  father  were  trustful 

[261] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

and  careless  and  warm  to  everybody  and — and 
pathetic,  some  way,  and  some  cool,  clever  man 
stabbed  him  in  the  back  when  he  was  down — 
oh,  could  you  get  over  it?  "  Tears  rushed  into 
her  eyes.  "  Wouldn't  you  have  to  be  angry 
for  him?" 

He  paled  under  the  attack.  "  Perhaps, 
for  a  while,"  he  admitted  slowly.  "  But  I 
should  want  to  be  very  sure  I  hadn't  misjudged 
the — cool,  clever  man.  YouVe  never  heard 
the  other  side,  have  you?" 

"  I  don't  feel  as  if  words  could  make 
any  difference.  I  don't  want  to  be — small;  but 
there  is  the  fact.  Of  course,  I  know  it  doesn't 
involve  you,"  she  added  honestly.  "  I  will  try 
to  remember  that."  She  held  out  her  hand, 
and  he  took  it  in  both  his. 

"  Will  you  let  me  bring  you  your  oil 
news?  "  he  asked,  as  though  that  were  the  test 
of  her  sincerity.  She  drew  her  hand  away  with 
a  faint  smile. 

"  On  wet  days,"  she  conceded. 

He  hailed  a  passing  buggy.  "  Jim, 
take  Miss  Rix  over  to  the  car,"  he  commanded. 
[262] 


The  House  Beautiful 

Berta  had  not  got  what  she  came  for,  but  she 
went  in  astonished  docility. 

The  side  path  was  an  impassable 
slough,  and  she  let  herself  into  the  great  house 
by  the  front  door,  tugging  off  her  rubber  boots 
under  the  luminous  grape  clusters  of  the  bronze 
Ceres  on  the  stairpost.  Her  bearing  had  a  new 
cheerfulness  to-night,  and  she  even  greeted 
Ceres  with  a  tolerant,  "  Hello,  old  girl,"  as  the 
lights  sprang  up.  To  be  wroth  with  even  a 
chance  acquaintance  is  a  sorry  state,  and  Gor- 
man's forcible  burying  of  the  hatchet  had  made 
her  ashamed  of  her  bitterness.  He  had  been 
quite  right  to  call  her  small :  she  liked  his  doing 
it,  and  the  memory  of  his  anger  was  oddly  stir- 
ring. She  wasted  no  time  glowering  at  her 
surroundings  to-night. 

The  kitchen  was  still  unlighted,  and  her 
father  sat  by  the  window,  a  dim  outline,  yet  so 
expressive  of  patient  discouragement  that  her 
new  spirits  went  down  before  a  sudden  stab  of 
pain. 

"Tired?"  she  asked,  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

[263] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"Just  a  little."  He  could  not  quite 
manage  his  usual  cheerfulness,  and  she  saw  the 
white  glimmer  of  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"Bad  news?"  she  asked  quickly,  tak- 
ing it  from  him. 

"Well,  I  don't  care  for  it  myself," 
with  feeble  whimsicality.  *  There's  a  man 
who  says  I  owe  him  some  money — and  I  guess 
I  do.  Anyway,  he's  said  it  often  enough  to 
make  it  true,  even  if  it  wasn't.  Now  he  says 
he's  coming  to  take  the  furniture  out  from 
under  us  in  the  morning.  Nice  fellow,  isn't 
he?  Such  a  joker."  Berta  dropped  down  on 
the  nearest  chair  in  blank  dismay.  Her  father 
hurried  on :  "  Don't  you  think  we'd  be  happier 
in  rooms,  anyway,  Bertie?  It's  kind  of  foolish, 
living  in  the  coal  bin  of  a  palace,  like  this.  Sup- 
pose he  takes  the  chairs  and  the  tables  and  we 
get  out?" 

"  But  rooms  cost,"  she  protested.  "  We 
can't  afford  them." 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  at  work  again  pretty 
soon."  He  felt  his  head  with  inquiring  fingers, 
as  though  to  see  what  it  would  stand.  "  And, 

[264] 


The  House  Beautiful 

anyway,   we'll  have   to  move   in  eight  weeks, 
dear  child." 

"They'll  foreclose?" 

"  That's  what." 

A  sense  of  sinking  helplessness,  of  utter 
panic,  clutched  at  her  throat  and  side.  Then 
she  rose  up,  her  sturdy,  practical  self  again,  and 
turned  on  the  lights. 

"  We  might  as  well  have  dinner,"  she 
announced.  Her  father  caught  at  her  tone 
with  an  eager  gratitude  that  nearly  broke  her 
down. 

"  Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  for  to-mor- 
row we'll  be  sold  up,"  he  cheered  her  on. 
"  Don't  leave  anything  in  the  refrigerator  or 
they'll  attach  that.  Here's  Gorman,"  he  added 
as  the  door  opened. 

"  I  just  brought  you  a  few  items  for 
your  paper,  Miss  Rix."  The  lodger  was  hold- 
ing out  a  typewritten  sheet  with  shy  determina- 
tion. "  You  know,  you  said  I  might." 

She  took  it  mechanically.  "  Thank 
you,"  she  said.  "  Father,  oughtn't  we  to  tell 
Mr.  Gorman  that  we  are — moving?  " 

[265] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"Moving?"  The  young  man  looked 
dismayed. 

"  Fact,  Gorman.  It's  very  sudden,  but 
it  looks  as  if  we  should — oh,  take  to  furnished 
rooms  or  something." 

"  I  suppose  you  would  be  more  com- 
fortable," he  assented  after  an  unhappy  pause. 
"How  soon?" 

"Well,  to-morrow,  I'm  afraid." 

"But  have  you  found  a  place?  You 
know  the  town  is  jammed." 

'That's  so;  but  we'll  get  something. 
Awfully  sorry  about  you,  though.  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Loftus " 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right."  He  looked  un- 
easily from  one  to  the  other;  but  Mr.  Rix  was 
filling  the  kettle  with  an  air  of  cheerful  indus- 
try, and  Berta's  head  was  bent  down  over  the 
apples  she  was  coring.  Something  in  the  at- 
mosphere said,  "  Don't  stay,"  and  he  reluc- 
tantly obeyed.  He  got  no  farther  than  the 
stairs,  however;  halfway  up  he  paused,  pon- 
dering, with  troubled  eyes.  Voices  sounded 
cheerfully  from  the  kitchen.  He  heard  Berta's 

[266] 


The  House  Beautiful 

laugh  and  her  father's  answering  chuckle,  and 
the  sounds  of  brisk  movements,  then  a  clear, 
"  In  five  minutes !  "  as  the  door  swung  open. 
Berta  did  not  see  him,  and  he  stood  transfixed 
at  the  sudden  change  that  came  over  her  when 
the  door  had  shut.  Her  face  dropped  into  her 
hands  and  she  made  blindly  for  the  stairs,  but 
sank  down  on  the  bottom  step,  crushing  back 
all  sound  of  the  sobs  that  shook  and  wrenched 
her.  At  his  gasp  of  distress,  she  crouched 
closer  to  the  stairs,  as  though  to  hide. 

"  My  dear  girl !  "  He  was  nearly  cry- 
ing himself  as  he  knelt  beside  her.  "  What  is 
it?  Don't  mind  me — let  me  help.  I  knew 
there  must  be  something.  You  poor  child !  " 
She  made  no  attempt  to  answer,  but  presently 
her  fingers  found  a  letter  in  her  belt  and  held 
it  out  to  him.  He  read  it  with  muttered  sounds 
that  rose  to  an  explosive  climax  of  wrath,  heav- 
ing him  to  his  feet  with  its  force. 

"  Don't  give  it  another  thought,"  he 
burst  out.  "  He's  not  coming  near  you.  I'll 
see  him!  "  He  would  have  rushed  off  on  the 
instant,  but  her  broken  voice  stopped  him. 

[267] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  You're  not  going  to  pay  him !  I 
couldn't  bear  that !  " 

"  Pay  him?     I'm  going  to  kick  him!  " 

u  But — we  do  owe  him  the  money,  you 
know." 

"  Yes ;  and  he  owes  us  exactly  seven 
times  that  amount,  and  has  had  all  the  consid- 
eration and  time  and — oh,  this  makes  me 
swear!  You  won't  hear  from  him  again  till 
you're  ready  to,  I  can  promise  you  that." 

"  If  he'll  only  wait  eight  weeks.  "  She 
lifted  her  tear-stained  face  in  her  relief.  "  Then 
they'll  foreclose  on  the  house,  and  he  can  have 
the  furniture  as  well  as  not.  And  if  some  one 
should  buy  it  first,  we  can  pay  him.  So,  you 
see,  it's  all  right,"  she  ended  with  an  eager 
reassurance  that  made  his  big  hands  clench  in 

impotent   pity.      "  Oh,    I   do   thank  you,    Mr. 

Gi  )t 
orman ! 

"  Don't,  don't,"  he  muttered,  turning 
away.  "  I'll  explain  to  your  father,"  he  added, 
without  looking  back. 

The  weeks  that  followed  were  a  sur- 
prisingly cheerful  time,  in  spite  of  impending 

[268] 


The  House  Beautiful 

homelessness  and  incessant  storm.  Never  had 
the  rainy  season  earned  its  title  so  thoroughly; 
but,  after  forty  days,  the  slow-breaking  clouds 
of  sunset  revealed  the  gold  bar  of  heaven  and 
left  hope  of  dry  land  once  more.  A  better  hope 
came  with  the  clearing.  When  Berta  let  her- 
self in,  late  and  tired  but  inexplicably  buoyant, 
her  father,  who  had  evidently  been  listening 
for  her,  met  her  wildly  in  the  hall,  blue- 
aproned,  a  knife  in  one  hand  and  an  orange  in 
the  other.  His  kindly,  careless,  handsome  face 
was  burning  with  excitement,  deeply  moved 
with  joy  and  relief. 

"  We're  saved,  Bertie,"  he  cried.  "  The 
wind's  tempered  this  time.  There's  some  one 
after  the  house — and  you  needn't  work  any 
more,  my  little  girl !  "  Tears  ran  down  his 
face,  and  knife  and  orange  met  recklessly  as  he 
flung  his  arms  about  her. 

"To  buy  it?"  she  gasped. 

'*  To  buy  it — cash  down  and  no  ques- 
tions. I'm  sorry,  dear,  for  it  was  your  home, 
but,  oh,  glory,  I'm  glad !  " 

"  O    father !  "      The   heavy   care   was 

[269] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

leaving  her  heart,  the  lie  was  rolling  off  her 
soul. 

"  We  won't  get  what  it  cost,  of  course," 
he  explained,  wiping  his  eyes.  u  But  there'll  be 
enough  over  the  mortgage  to  give  us  an  income 
for  all  our  days.  I  don't  see  what  we're  snivel- 
ing about,"  he  ended  with  a  catch  in  his  breath. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  she  returned  with  a  sob. 
He  stood  with  his  arms  round  her,  looking 
proudly,  yet  sadly,  at  the  splendors  about  them. 

"  If  you  could  only  have  lived  in  it 
properly  just  once,"  he  sighed.  "  It's  a  pretty 
fine  house,  if  I  do  say  it!  " 

The  lie  was  so  nearly  over  for  her  now 
that  she  gave  it  with  her  whole  heart. 

"  It's  the  most  beautiful  house  in  the 
world,"  she  cried,  then  flushed  as  she  saw  the 
front  door  opening.  Mr.  Rix  suddenly  recov- 
ered his  spirits. 

"  Hello,  Gorman !  We've  got  some 
one  after  the  house,"  he  shouted.  The  big 
lodger  smiled  uncertainly,  his  glance  resting  on 
Berta's  tear-touched  eyes. 

"  Well,  of  course,  it  must  be  a  relief, 
[270] 


The  House  Beautiful 

too,"  he  offered  her  comfortingly.  "  Who  is 
buying  it?"  he  added,  turning  to  the  coat 
closet. 

"  Some  oil  nabob,  I  suppose;  he  doesn't 
appear  in  the  transaction.  He  sent  an  agent. 
It's  a  load  off,  Gorman,  I  can  tell  you!  Isn't 
there  some  show  in  town?  We  must  all  go  to 
the  theater.  Oh,  my  Lord,  those  chops !  "  And 
he  fled. 

Gorman  turned  quickly  to  Berta. 
'  You're  happy,  aren't  you?  "  he  asked,  earnest 
eyes  on  her  face.  "  The  relief  is  greater  than 
the  loss,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes — I'm  happy  right  down 
through ! "  she  cried.  "  If  you  only  knew ! " 

"  I  can  guess,  a  little."  He  looked 
deeply,  warmly  happy  himself.  "  Well,  then, 
I'm  going  to  ask  you  something." 

She  bent  down  to  tie  her  slipper.  "  It's 
a  good  night  to  ask  me  things,"  she  said. 

"Will  you  forgive  my  father?"     She 

looked  up,  too  surprised  to  answer.     "  Couldn't 

you  accept  him — forget  all  your  bitterness  and 

be  friendly  with  him  ?    You  see,  I'm  not  trying 

[271] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

to  excuse  him — though  he  doesn't  feel  himself 
in  the  wrong.  I'm  just  begging,  that's  all,  be- 
cause I — it  means  everything  in  the  world  to 
me.  Could  you?  " 

He  held  out  his  two  hands  as  though 
they  were  his  father's.  She  waited  a  moment, 
to  be  sure,  then  gave  him  both  her  own. 

"Yes;  I'll  be  friends  with — your  fa- 
ther," she  promised,  and,  looking  up  into  his 
eyes,  forgot  to  look  away  again.  Ceres  was 
kind;  the  electric  light  faltered,  then  went  out, 
leaving  them  for  a  moment  in  total  darkness. 
When  the  purple  grapes  bloomed  again,  they 
shone  on  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth. 

The  chops  were  burned  to  a  crisp,  so 
they  went  down  to  a  hotel  for  dinner,  Berta 
and  the  lodger  suddenly  very  shy  and  silent. 
When  dessert  was  served,  Mr.  Rix,  a  sympa- 
thetic twinkle  in  his  eyes,  left  them  together 
while  he  went  after  theater  tickets.  Gorman, 
meeting  Berta's  glance,  suddenly  laughed. 

"  It's  no  use.     I  can't  keep  it,"  he  ex- 
claimed.    "  Berta,  who  do  you  think  is  going 
to  live  in  your  grand  home?  " 
[272] 


The  House  Beautiful 

"  Your  father?"  in  startled  suspicion. 

"  No.  Young  married  couple."  His 
smile  was  so  significant,  so  embracing,  that  her 
face  flamed. 

"Tell  me,"  she  commanded  hastily. 

"  You  are !  " 

"  What?  "  She  recoiled  from  him,  but 
he  saw  only  her  bewilderment. 

*  You  see,  I  wrote  my  father — how  it 
was  with  me ;  and  how  you  were  situated.  And 
he  told  me  to  go  ahead  and  buy  the  house  as 
a — wedding  present  from  myself  to — any  lady 
who  would  have  me.  We  can't  keep  it  up  just 
as  it  should  be,  at  first,  but  we'll  do  very  well, 
and  you  will  be  in  your  own  pink  and  gold 
rooms — my  dear  love!  "  he  ended,  with  all  his 
heart  in  his  voice. 

"Oh!"  After  the  faint,  frightened 
gasp,  she  said  nothing  at  all,  but  sat  so  motion- 
less, her  white  face  bent  on  her  hand,  that  he 
was  troubled. 

"  I've  upset  you.  I'm  a  clumsy  brute — 
I  always  upset  everything,"  he  muttered.  "  It 
wasn't  anything  to  do,  Berta — don't  take  it  so 
[273] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

to  heart.    We'll  forget  all  about  it  now.    Dear, 
here  comes  your  father !  " 

She  roused  herself  with  a  strained  smile, 
and  Gorman  kept  Mr.  Rix's  attention  engaged 
until  they  were  in  their  musty  little  velvet  seats 
and  the  curtain  was  going  up  on  "  The  Old 
Homestead.'1  The  play  was,  as  Mr.  Rix  jovial- 
ly explained,  "  sort  of  appropriate, "  but  during 
those  three  hours  Berta  neither  saw  nor  heard. 
She  was  facing  the  consequences  of  her  one 
kindly  lie.  A  big  thing  had  been  done  to  give 
her  happiness:  thousands  of  dollars  were  to  be 
taken  out  of  this  simple,  honest  man's  heritage 
to  restore  to  her  a  beloved  home.  Could  she 
throw  the  gift  back,  let  him  see  that  she  had 
made  a  fool  of  him?  Not  that  she  had  made 
a  fool  of  her  father:  "  I  couldn't  have  done  dif- 
fently,  I  couldn't !  "  she  cried  before  the  piteous 
memory  of  his  happiness  over  the  surprise.  But 
with  this  younger  man  it  was  different.  She 
could  not  enter  on  her  life  with  him  except  in 
the  clear  beauty  of  absolute  truth,  she  could  not 
for  one  half  hour  feign  joy  in  that  monstrous 
possession.  And  yet  the  alternative  seemed 
[274] 


The  House  Beautiful 

equally  impossible.  To  so  wound  a  generous 
soul,  to  make  him  understand  the  ugly,  lying 
part  she  had  played ! 

"  If  only  I  needn't  tell  him  now!  "  was 
her  silent  wail  when  at  last  the  curtain  fell  on 
the  play  and  they  rose  in  their  seats.  The 
knowledge  that  it  must  be  now  lay  like  a  dead 
weight  on  her  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  to  be  that  night.  As  they 
stepped  out  on  the  sidewalk,  Mr.  Rix  turned 
to  her  with  an  apologetic  smile  and  tried  to  say 
something.  A  moment  later  he  lay  unconscious 
at  their  feet. 

For  forty-eight  hours  Berta  scarcely 
knew  day  from  night.  She  could  have  lost  her 
father  after  his  accident  with  only  the  normal 
sorrow  common  to  all  daughters  of  kindly, 
loving  men;  but  in  this  year  of  caring  for  him, 
working  for  him,  lying  for  him,  her  love  had 
sunk  to  a  depth  that  was  half  motherhood.  She 
could  not  let  him  go.  When  the  nurse  coun- 
seled rest  and  fresh  air,  Berta  simply  looked  at 
her  as  if  she  spoke  an  unknown  tongue  and 
turned  back  to  the  bed.  She  would  lie  down 

[275] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

only  when  Gorman  took  her  place.  He  was  a 
rock  of  strength  to  her,  and  those  two  long 
nights  brought  them  together  in  a  closeness 
that  no  happy  experience  could  have  wrought; 
but  she  gave  him  no  separate  thoughts,  and  the 
look  in  her  eyes  haunted  him. 

Mr.  Rix  rallied  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
gone  down.  By  the  fourth  night  he  was  out  of 
danger,  and  Berta  was  rounding  out  twelve 
hours  of  unbroken  sleep.  He  smiled  with  feeble 
whimsicality  as  Gorman  came  to  relieve  the 
nurse. 

"  I  almost  ended  my  days  in  the  House 
Beautiful,  after  all,"  he  said,  and  sighed  faint- 
ly. Then  a  worried  frown  crossed  his  fore- 
head. "  By  the  way,  we  haven't  lost  that  sale, 
have  we? " 

"No;  and  you  won't  lose  it,"  Gorman 
promised.  The  heartiness  of  his  reassurance 
made  the  older  man  look  at  him  with  awaken- 
ing keenness. 

"  See  here,  Gorman,  who's  buying  it?  " 
he  asked  suddenly. 

"  You  ought  not  to  talk,  Mr.  Rix." 
[276] 


The  House  Beautiful 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk — I  want  you  to. 
Who's  going  to  live  in  this  house,  young 
man?" 

Gorman  took  the  aged  hand  in  his  big, 
young  grasp.  "  Berta  and  you  and  I,"  he 
said. 

Relief  dawned  in  the  worn  face,  grew 
to  heavenly  peace. 

"  She'll  have  her  own  beautiful  home — 
my  little  girl !  "  he  murmured.  He  became 
drowsy  after  that,  but  presently  started  awake. 
"  You're  a  good  fellow,  Gorman.  I'm  glad  it's 
you." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  it's  me,"  said  Gorman 
with  a  mighty  sigh. 

When  Berta  came  hurrying  down  at 
midnight,  self-reproachful  for  her  long  ob- 
livion, she  found  her  father  sound  asleep,  and 
Gorman  yielding  up  his  place  to  the  nurse.  He 
followed  Berta  to  the  kitchen,  where  a  kettle 
bubbled  hospitably  on  the  glowing  range. 

"  I  have  told  your  father,"  he  began 
joyfully.  Berta,  who  was  investigating  the  re- 
frigerator with  sudden  appetite,  slowly  closed 

[277] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

its  door  and  rose  to  face  him.  She  realized 
with  sickening  certainty  that  the  time  had  come. 
"  You  never  saw  anything  so  wonderful  as  his 
face,"  Gorman  was  going  on.  "  The  fact  that 
you  were  to  live  always  in  your  splendid  home 
— that  meant  more  to  him  than  our  marriage, 
Berta.  At  first,  anyway.  How  he  did  love 
doing  it  for  you !  " 

"  Don't.  I've  got  to  tell  you  some- 
thing." Her  strained  voice  sounded  harsh,  al- 
most angry.  "  I  told  you  long  ago  that  on  one 
subject  I  lied — always.  Well,  I  can't  lie  to 
you.  It  has  got  to  be  straight  between  us.  I 
hate  this  house !  " 

"  Berta!" 

"  I  loathe  this  house.  I  consider  it  a 
horror,"  she  rushed  on.  "There  isn't  an  inch 
of  it  that  doesn't  break  every  law  of  beauty  and 
taste  and — oh,  it  is  vulgar  and  unspeakable ! 
But  the  poor  darling  didn't  know,  and  it  was 
his  surprise  for  me,  so  I  lied — and  lied — and — 
and — now  I'm  punished,  for  I  have  to  put  a 
knife  into  you,  hurt  you  horribly.  Oh,  I  love 
you,  but  I  can't  live  all  my  life  in  this  house!  " 
[278] 


The  House  Beautiful 

"  Berta !  "  He  swept  her  up  into  his 
arms.  "  You  poor  child!  Listen,  listen — I've 
lied,  too !  For  I  thought  the  house  was — just 
what  you  say — pretty  bad,  dear!  But  I  tried 
to  like  it,  because  I  did  so  awfully  like  you — r 
oh,  I'd  have  liked  a  pink  silk  Chinese  pagoda, 
if  you  did !  But,  just  the  same,  it's  perfectly 
bully  to  find  you  didn't !  I  might  have  guessed. 
What  is  it?  "  he  added,  for,  after  a  moment  of 
shining  joy,  her  face  had  clouded,  and  she  drew 
away  from  him. 

"  He  will  be  so  disappointed,"  she  fal- 
tered. "  If  he  hadn't  been  told — but  now  he'll 
be  so  disappointed!  "  Gorman  nodded  in  so- 
bering recognition  of  the  fact. 

"  So  he  will,"  he  assented.  They  faced 
it  sadly  for  a  long  minute;  then  she  drew  the 
deep  breath  of  resolution. 

"  So  long  as  you  knew — so  long  as 
there  was  no  lie  between  us — "  she  began.  He 
caught  her  meaning,  and  responded  with  gen- 
erous eagerness. 

"Why  not,  for  the  rest  of  his  life! 
Couldn't  you  be  happy  here — if  we  got  together 
[279] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

in   corners   and  called   it  names  whenever  we 
liked  ?" 

She  ran  back  into  his  arms.  "  Oh,  we 
can  be  happy  anywhere.  Let's  make  him  happy 
too!  "  she  cried. 


XIV 

The  Modern 


AT  the  nursery  door  her  brother  stopped 
her  with  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  a  laugh  in 
his  big  voice. 

"  Cordy,  I  tell  you  right  here,  I'm  skep- 
tical about  the  kids,"  he  declared.  "  This 
bringing  them  up  with  no  punishments  —  well, 
it  wouldn't  have  worked  with  us,  you  know  !  " 

"  Ah,  but  they  have  consequences," 
Cordelia  broke  in  eagerly.  "  Every  bad  act 
brings  its  inevitable  consequence  —  you  will  see 
—  just  as  it  does  in  life.  Isn't  that  better  than 
frowns  and  blows  from  me?  Isn't  it  infinitely 
wiser?" 

"  We  break  the  colts  by  kindness  —  but 
we  take  the  whip  along."  He  spoke  dubiously. 
"  Well,  if  I  think  they  need  a  whack  or  two,  I 
shall  say  so,  that's  all.  You  did  in  your  day,  let 
me  remark!  " 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Ah,  poor  mother  didn't  know,"  she 
murmured,  and  threw  back  the  door.  "  Here  is 
dear  Uncle  Henry  come  to  see  Helena  and  Rob- 
ert !  "  The  earnestness  of  her  inflections  raised 
the  announcement  almost  to  the  plane  of  prayer. 
"  Now  what  do  you  say  to  Uncle  Henry, 
darling?  " 

"How  do  you  do?"  The  small,  flat, 
monotonous  drawl  offered  an  amusing  contrast. 
The  big  uncle,  suppressing  a  laugh,  looked 
down  into  a  small,  pale,  inscrutable  face.  For 
a  bare  instant  the  eyes  were  raised  to  his,  but 
the  glance  was  curiously  blank,  and  fell  away 
unresponsively  before  his  smile.  Released, 
Helena  returned  at  once  to  her  little  table  and 
her  water  colors,  paying  no  further  attention 
to  the  new  relative.  Big  Robert,  aged  four- 
teen months,  was  a  simpler  matter;  a  poke  or 
two  established  their  relations  at  once. 

"  And  now — we're  going  down  to  lunch 
with  Uncle  Henry !  "  Cordelia  went  on  with 
an  air  of  elated  climax  that  should  have  aroused 
a  childish  heart  to  jumpings. 

"  Mother,  I  am  not  hungry.     I  should 

[282] 


The  Modern  Way 

like  to  stay  and  finish  my  picture. "  The  tone- 
less little  voice  neither  pleaded  nor  protested; 
it  merely  stated. 

"  No,  dear.  Mother  will  explain  just 
why  to  you  by  and  by.  I  want  you  to  come  now 
and  eat  your  lunch.  Maybe  there's  something 
you  like !  "  with  a  clap  of  enthusiastic  palms. 
Helena's  fathomless  glance  touched  her  moth- 
er's face  unresponsively,  then  dropped;  but  she 
rose  at  once  and  preceded  them  to  the  dining 
room. 

"  Soft  mouth,"  Henry  admitted. 
'  That's  pretty  sharp  minding.  If  she  always 
comes  up  to  the  reins  like  that " 

"  But  isn't  it  a  daily  experience  that 
people  will  do  for  love  and  reason  what  they 
won't  for  force?"  Cordelia  broke  in.  "Hel- 
ena, at  seven,  is  a  perfectly  reasonable  being, 
because  she  has  been  led,  shown  the  way,  not 
driven.  And  it  is  a  strange  thing,  Henry  " — 
she  paused,  lowering  her  voice — "  she  is  hand- 
ing down  to  the  baby  this  same  guiding  of  love 
and  reason  that  I  have  given  her.  She  is  the 
most  wonderful  little  mother!  And  Robert 

[283] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

minds  her  twice  as  well  as  he  does  me.  It's  al- 
most hypnotic,  the  way  the  little  thing  can  con- 
trol and  direct  him.  And  they  don't  know  the 
word  s-l-a-p !  " 

"  Well,  you're  a  wonder,"  Henry  con- 
ceded, but  provisionally. 

There  was  certainly  truth  in  the  claim 
that  Helena  had  a  strong  influence  over  her 
baby  brother.  Early  in  the  meal  Robert,  from 
his  high  chair,  became  so  enamored  of  a  cut- 
glass  dish  that  life  without  it  grew  suddenly 
insupportable.  He  squirmed,  scolded,  stormed, 
and  his  mother's  insistent  "  Hurt  baby!  "  illus- 
trated by  touches  of  the  sharp  edge  on  his  fat 
hand,  wholly  failed  to  appease  his  desire.  Baby 
preferred  consequences  to  denial.  Suddenly 
Helena,  who  had  been  eating  diligently,  with 
bent  head,  turned  to  him,  lifting  a  small  fore- 
finger. 

"Robert!  Mustn't!"  she  said  quietly. 
The  baby,  meeting  her  still,  pale  gaze,  stared 
for  a  moment  as  though  fascinated,  then  mut- 
tered, bubbled,  sighed,  and  went  back  to  the 
tame  joys  of  a  napkin  ring.  Helena  returned  to 

[284] 


The  Modern  Way 

her  chicken.  It  was  odd  that,  a  few  minutes 
after  this  exhibition  of  maturity,  she  should 
childishly,  even  wantonly,  tip  over  a  glass  of 
milk,  chiefly  into  her  lap. 

"  My  darling  girl !  That  was  care- 
less !  "  Her  mother's  voice  was  all  love  and 
distress.  "  See — your  clean  gown  is  drenched. 
Now  what  will  be  the  consequences  of  such  care- 
lessness? " 

"  Leave  the  table,"  murmured  Helena 
dispassionately. 

"  I'm  afraid  so,  love.  Mother  is  so 
sorry!  Get  all  dry,  won't  you,  dear?"  Hel- 
ena slipped  soberly  out  of  the  room,  but  they 
could  hear  her  light  feet  scampering  on  the 
stairs. 

"You  see?"  Cordelia  turned  trium- 
phantly to  her  brother.  "  There  is  no  anger, 
no  punishment — just  inevitable  consequences." 

"  We'd  have  got  it  pretty  warm  for 
that,"  he  admitted  thoughtfully. 

"Yes;  anger,  reproaches,  slapped 
hands,  resentment!  And  we  should  have  left 
the  table  disgraced.  She's  got  the  gist  of  the 
[285] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

experience,  the  necessary  part.  Now  isn't  the 
modern  way  better?  She  won't  do  it  again." 
Henry's  thoughtfulness  had  increased. 

"  She  didn't  want  to  come  to  lunch,"  he 
said  suddenly. 

"  No.  She  is  so  absorbed  in  her  paints, 
she  doesn't  want  to  do  anything  else,"  was  the 
indulgent  answer. 

uH'm,"  murmured  Henry.  "I  don't 
believe  she  will  do  it  again,"  he  added  presently. 
"  Interesting  child — very!  " 

It  had  rained  that  morning,  and  in  the 
afternoon  Helena  stated  a  preference  for  the 
nursery  over  the  wet  garden;  but,  after  submit- 
ting to  an  earnest  talk  on  hygiene  and  the  need 
of  fresh  air,  she  went  readily  forth  with  Robert 
and  the  nurse.  It  was  the  nurse  who  sent  her 
back,  ten  minutes  later,  because  of  leaking 
rubbers. 

"  But  where  are  your  new  ones,  dar- 
ling?" urged  her  mother.  They  spent  twenty 
minutes  in  the  search,  but  finally  had  to  give  up 
hygiene  for  that  day.  Not  till  the  next  morn- 
ing, when  a  little  playmate  called  to  beg  that 

[286] 


The  Modern  Way 

Helena  might  "  come  over,"  did  they  reappear 
— down  behind  the  nursery  woodbox. 

"  It  is  very  queer  how  they  got  there," 
wondered  Cordelia. 

"  I  think  Robert  was  playing  with  them 
yesterday,"  said  little  Helena.  "  I  think  so — 
I  am  not  sure,"  she  added  carefully. 

"  You  were  a  clever  little  daughter  to 
find  them,"  said  her  mother  fondly. 

"  May  I  stay  to  lunch  if  Gladys's  moth- 
er asks  me  ?  " 

"  No,  darling.  You  haven't  been  very 
well,  and  mother  likes  to  know  just  what  you 
eat.  Come  home  at  twelve,  won't  you?  " 

1  Yes,  mother."  The  toneless  answer 
betrayed  no  disappointment.  Cordelia  went  to 
the  window  to  smile  after  the  two  little  figures. 

"  I  sometimes  fear  that  Helena  is  al- 
most too  docile,"  she  said.  "  When  I  remem- 
ber how  we  fussed — !  You  don't  think  she  is 
weak,  do  you,  Henry?" 

"Weak!  My  dear  Cordy,  she's  steel 
— granite — we're  paper  beside  that  child! 
Weak!"  It  was  almost  a  shout,  and  he  re- 

[287] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

peated  it  on  a  still  higher  key.  "  She's  got  the 
bit  in  her  teeth  from  the  moment  she  wakes  up 
in  the  morning — she's  going  to  have  her  own 
way  if  the  sky  falls!  Weak — my  Lord!  " 

"  Oh,  Henry,  you  are  too  absurd." 
Cordelia  was  amused.  "  You  ought  to  marry 
and  learn  something  about  children.  Robert's 
a  little  rebel,  if  you  like,  but  Helena — really 
and  truly,  she's  almost  too  good.  The  way  she 
will  take  care  of  Robert,  for  instance — I  can 
leave  them  all  alone  together  for  hours.  You 
ought  to  hear  what  other  mothers  say  to  me 
about  her." 

"  She  isn't  weak,"  was  the  dogged  an- 
swer. "  Don't  you  worry  about  that!  " 

Henry  happened  to  be  present,  a  couple 
of  hours  later,  when  his  sister  was  summoned 
to  the  telephone.  The  broken  conversation  set 
him  smiling  deeply  behind  his  newspaper. 

"  Why,  that  is  too  bad!  Helena  hasn't 
been  very  well  lately,  and  I  told  her  .  .  .  Oh, 
of  course,  sponge  cake  is  very  simple  .  .  . 
Well,  if  the  cook  has  gone  to  all  that  trouble, 
I  suppose  .  .  .  You  are  very  good,  Mrs. 

[288] 


The  Modern  Way 

White,  to  want  her.  Yes,  she  can  stay.  But 
just  give  her  simple  things,  won't  you?  .  .  . 
Why,  the  dear  little  soul!  Tell  her  it  is  all 
right — mother  is  willing  that  she  should  stay. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  am  sure  of  that.  You  are  very 
good.  Good-by ! 

"  Henry,  isn't  it  annoying!  The  cook 
had  understood  from  the  children  that  Helena 
was  to  stay  to  lunch,  and  had  made  little  special 
— what  are  you  smiling  at?  " 

Henry  erased  his  expression  with  a 
thoughtful  palm.  "  Paper's  rather  amusing 
to-day,"  he  said,  rising.  "  So  Helena  is  going 
to  stay  to  lunch  after  all !  " 

"Well,  after  the  cook  had  taken  all 
that  trouble — their  names  on  the  cakes  and  all 
that — and  Gladys  was  weeping —  Sponge- 
cake is  harmless  enough.  But  I  would  so  much 
rather  have  her  home!  Mrs.  White  is  not 
modern  about  diet  and  hygiene." 

"  I  wonder  how  the  cook  came  to  make 
the  mistake?  "  mused  Henry. 

He  was  watching  for  his  niece  when 
she  came  home  that  afternoon,  and  followed 

[289] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

her  to  the  nursery.  He  found  her  embracing 
Robert  with  the  fervor  of  reunion,  fussily  ma- 
ternal, but  obviously  sincere.  Henry  took  a 
chair  facing  the  group. 

"  You  are  fond  of  your  brother,  aren't 
you,  Helena  ?  "  he  began.  Her  brief,  veiled 
glance  met  his  only  for  an  instant,  but  she  an- 
swered with  childish  simplicity. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  love  him  better  than  any- 
thing. I've  never  wanted  my  dolls  since  I  had 
him." 

"  She's  real  wonderful  with  him,"  put 
in  the  nurse  admiringly.  "  He  don't  mind  no 
one  else.  It  ain't  easy,"  she  added  confidential- 
ly, "  this  bringing  'em  up  without  no — well,  you 
know  what,  sir!  " 

Henry  nodded  understandingly.  "  Hel- 
ena, come  here,"  he  said,  as  the  nurse  left  the 
room  with  Robert's  empty  bowl  and  cup.  She 
obeyed  at  once,  but  so  reluctantly  that  he  felt 
half  ashamed  of  the  superior  strength  that  co- 
erced her  as  he  lifted  her  to  his  knee.  "  You 
are  a  very  clever  little  girl,"  he  said,  looking 
keenly  into  the  small,  pale  face.  "  Cleverer 
[290] 


The  Modern  Way 

perhaps  than  even  your  mother  knows — aren't 
you?  "  The  downcast  face  remained  obstinate- 
ly blank.  "  It's  hard  to  be  a  little,  weak  girl, 
and  yet  want  your  own  way  so  awfully,  isn't 
it?"  he  went  on  with  confidential  sympathy. 
"  I  always  wanted  my  own  way  just  as  hard 
as  you  do,  but  I  was  big  and  strong  and  I  could 
fight  for  it.  But  I  know  exactly  how  you  feel, 
Helena.  So  I  hope  we're  going  to  be  friends, 
you  and  I."  There  was  not  a  gleam  of  re- 
sponse. She  might  have  been  the  dullest  little 
girl  in  Christendom ;  and  the  disturbing  thought 
that  perhaps  she  really  was,  and  that  he  had 
been  misreading  her,  checked  his  speech.  He 
was  still  faltering  before  the  idea  when  Corde- 
lia appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Henry,  the  wringer  is  misbehaving. 
I  wonder  if  you  could  fix  it? "  she  began. 
"  Darling,  you  will  take  care  of  Robert  for  half 
an  hour?  Nurse  is  in  the  laundry  if  you  need 
her.  I  am  glad  you  and  Uncle  Henry  are  be- 
coming such  friends,"  she  added,  with  a  smile 
for  the  tableau  she  had  interrupted. 

Henry  followed  to  the  laundry,  but 
[291] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

presently  returned  for  a  screw-driver.  He  had 
come  up  the  back  stairs,  and,  as  he  turned  to 
the  front  of  the  house,  a  voice  from  the  nursery 
made  him  pause. 

"  Robert  mustn't!  No,  no,  naughty — 
must  mind !  Robert  knows  what  happens  when 
he  doesn't  mind  Helena !  " 

A  mumble  of  defiance  was  followed  by 
a  small  crash.  Helena  jumped  to  her  feet  and 
stood  for  a  moment  at  the  open  nursery  door, 
listening  intently.  Henry,  who  had  slipped  into 
the  room  adjoining,  was  not  seen.  The  nursery 
door  was  closed  with  ominous  quiet. 

What  happened  when  Robert  didn't 
mind  Helena?  The  uncle  felt  an  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  know,  and,  stealing  to  the  nursery 
door,  he  opened  it  a  noiseless  inch.  His  gasp 
of  swallowed  laughter  would  have  betrayed 
him  if  Helena  had  not  been  so  absorbed. 
Where,  in  that  household,  had  she  learned 
how?  Was  the  knowledge  in  the  blood?  Or 
had  the  unhappy  experiences  of  little  playmates 
enlightened  her?  Robert  was  turned  across 
Helena's  small  knee  at  the  historic  angle,  and 
[292] 


The  Modern  Way 

the  slipper  was  descending  with  temperate  but 
honest  zeal.  Even  her  little  mouth  had  the 
traditional  expression;  it  was  firm  but  sorrow- 
ful, as  though  it  said,  "  This  hurts  me  more 
than  it  hurts  you !  " 

An  indignant  roar  followed  Henry  as, 
screw-driver  in  hand,  he  slipped  quietly  down 
the  stairs  again.  His  face,  when  he  reappeared 
in  the  laundry,  was  so  red  that  his  sister  re- 
proached him  for  hurrying. 

"  Say,  Cordy,"  he  began,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  screw  he  was  tightening,  "  how  long  be- 
fore Robert  will  be  able  to  tell  things — say  what 
happens  to  him  and  all  that?  " 

"  Oh,  not  for  a  good  many  months.  He 
is  backward  about  speaking — he  hasn't  any 
words  at  all  yet.  Were  the  children  all  right?  " 
Cordelia  added  as  he  said  nothing. 

"  First-rate.  Couldn't  be  better,"  was 
the  emphatic  answer.  "  Good  idea,  letting  Hel- 
ena take  care  of  Robert.  I'd  leave  them  to- 
gether a  whole  lot  if  I  were  you.  Clever  child, 
that." 

"  Oh,  we  do,"  said  the  mother  fondly. 

[293] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

11  Now  don't  you  begin  to  see  the  value  of  the 
modern  method,  Henry?  " 

Henry's  face  was  bent  abruptly  over 
his  work. 

"  It  has  its  points,"  he  conceded. 


[294] 


XV 

My  Mother  s  Diary 

JUNE  1 1 :  This  is  the  end  of  our  first 
day  in  the  valley,  and  Yosemite  is  almost  up 
to  its  photographs.  The  others  weren't  ener- 
getic, but  Tom  and  I  went  to  see  the  Bridal  Veil, 
and  sat  there  for  an  hour  or  more,  discussing 
what  seems  to  be  the  correct  topic  now,  heaven 
versus  extinction.  He's  an  atheist,  of  course, 
but  not  a  very  bigoted  one.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  in  time  he  settled  down  into  quite  an  orthodox 
agnostic.  We  got  very  solemn.  If  you  care 
about  sensations,  the  old  place  certainly  does 
give  you  your  money's  worth.  It  seems  queer 
to  think  that  I,  in  my  calfskin  boots  and  leather 
leggings,  have  been  going  over  the  very  ground 
that  my  mother  traversed  thirty  years  ago  to- 
day, probably  in  paper  soles  and  hoop  skirts. 
She  says  that  her  engagement  came  out  of  that 
trip.  I  wonder  if  Yosemite  always  affects  our 
[295] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

family  that  way!  I  ran  across  her  little  old 
diary  just  before  I  left,  and  I  am  going  to  read 
it  each  day  after  I  have  made  my  own  record. 
Let's  see  what  she  says  of  the  nth  of  June. 
Two  pages  of  purple  peaks  and  glowing  senti- 
ments, then: 

Sat  on  a  rock  with  J.  and  talked  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul.  Was  troubled  to  find 
he  had  been  assailed  by  the  doubts  so  prevalent 
in  this  generation.  Shall  do  all  I  can  to  clear 
his  vision.  Talked  long  and  earnestly,  went 
back  much  exalted  by  the  grandeur  and  beauty 
on  every  side. 

Yes,  I  know  that  uplifted,  soul  to  soul 
feeling.  Nowadays  we  call  it  religious  flirta- 
tion. Is  this  generation  coarser  and  less  rever- 
ent, or  simply  more  honest?  I  suppose  J.  stands 
for  Joseph,  who  has  since  become  my  father 
and  a  pillar  of  the  church.  Mother  did  good 
work  that  trip. 

June  12:1  had  a  small  adventure  this 
morning,  all  by  myself.  I  was  up  earlier  than 
the  rest,  and  it  looked  so  lovely  out  that  I 

[296] 


My  Mother's  Diary 

strolled  a  little  way,  and  then  a  little  farther, 
and  still  on  up  a  fascinating  trail.  I  was  ex- 
amining a  stone  I  had  found,  which  I  was  mor- 
ally certain  indicated  a  gold  mine  under  my  feet, 
and  was  trying  to  decide  how  I  could  stake  out 
my  claim,  when  a  little  sound  in  front  of  me 
made  me  look  up.  Not  three  feet  away  lay  a 
huge  rattlesnake,  who  had  evidently  just  dis- 
covered me.  We  stood  staring  at  each  other 
for  a  few  seconds  without  any  interchange  of 
courtesies.  I  was  too  scared  to  move,  and  I 
dare  say  he  was.  Then  I  flung  my  gold  stone 
in  his  face  and  jumped  back  as  far  as  I  could. 
There  was  a  b-zz  that  made  my  blood  run  cold, 
but  it  was  his  death  rattle.  He  was  very  dead 
and  very  nasty. 

At  first  I  thought  I  would  sit  down  and 
cry;  then,  running  back  to  the  hotel  seemed 
more  attractive;  but  finally  pride  and  vainglory 
made  me  spear  the  vile  thing  upon  a  long 
forked  stick  and  carry  him  back  to  impress  the 
others.  They  were  all  out  in  front,  wondering 
where  I  was,  and  everybody  was  nice  and  im- 
pressed and  congratulatory,  except  Tom,  who 

[297] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

chose  to  be  cross  as  a  bear  about  it  and  to  sulk 
all  day,  probably  because  he  didn't  have  the 
glory  himself.  He  read  me  a  long  lecture  on 
foolhardiness  and  not  knowing  when  you  ought 
to  be  afraid,  just  as  if  I  hadn't  been  in  an  agony 
of  fright  the  whole  time.  I  suppose  he  would 
have  admired  me  more  if  I  had  let  the  snake 
chase  me  home,  so  that  he  could  rush  out  and 
throttle  it  with  one  hand  and  bear  me  fainting 
into  the  house  with  the  other.  Men  say  they 
like  girls  to  be  plucky  and  sensible  and  all  that, 
but  in  their  secret  hearts  they  still  adore  the 
Clingy  Vine  kind.  Next  time  I  get  into  a  tight 
place,  and  Tom  is  around,  I'll  give  him  a 
little  exhibition  of  how  Clingy  Vine  behaves 
under  those  circumstances,  and  we'll  see  how 
he  likes  it. 

Now  for  my  mother's  June  twelfth. 
More  purple  sentiments,  which  I'll  skip,  then: 

I  had  a  shock  this  morning,  from  which 
my  nerves  have  scarcely  yet  recovered.  The 
sense  of  horror  still  clings  to  me,  and  I  dread 
going  to  sleep,  knowing  what  my  dreams  will 
be.  J.  and  I  were  following  a  path  when  sud- 

[298] 


My  Mother's  Diary 

denly  we  came  upon  a  mammoth  rattlesnake, 
which  one  of  the  guides  had  killed.  We  saw 
at  once  that  the  creature  was  dead,  but  his  evil 
look,  and  the  dread  thought  of  what  might  have 
happened  had  he  been  alive,  made  me  so  faint 
that  J.  was  obliged  to  support  me  to  a  seat, 
where  I  clung  to  him  trembling  and  weeping 
in  spite  of  my  efforts  at  self-control.  It  was  a 
long  time  before  I  was  able  to  go  on.  He 
showed  the  greatest  kindness  and  sympathy,  and 
the  gentlest  consideration  for  my  feminine  tim- 
idity. I  find  in  him  some  very  noble  traits,  and 
his  conversation  is  highly  enjoyable. 

My  mother  would  have  just  suited  Tom. 
If  she  had  been  alone  and  the  snake  alive,  I 
wonder  if  she  would  have  killed  it  herself!  And 
do  you  suppose  I  might  have  trembled  and  wept 
if  there  had  been  any  one  on  the  spot  to  ap- 
preciate it?  It  isn't  impossible. 

June  13:  We  went  up  Cloud's  Rest  to- 
day :  very  fine.  Edith  wished  she  had  a  kodak, 
which  Tom  said  would  be  about  as  much  in 
place  as  a  kazoo  in  a  Beethoven  symphony. 
He  has  rather  devoted  himself  in  that  direction 
since  I  refused  to  be  lectured  more  than  a  lim- 
[299] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

ited  amount  yesterday.  Edith  doesn't  kill 
snakes.  She  squealed  a  little  to-day  when  her 
horse  shied,  and  Tom  grew  positively  affection- 
ate. All  the  same,  I  happen  to  know  that  once, 
when  she  was  a  little  girl,  she  held  up  a  mouse 
by  its  tail;  and  if  she  goes  too  far,  I'll  betray 
her.  No  present  timidity  can  live  down  a  past 
like  that;  and  she  can't  deny  the  charge,  for  I 
stood  on  a  table  and  shrieked  while  she  did  it. 
Oh,  I  can  spoil  her  chances  any  moment  I 
choose.  I  have  had  to  content  myself  with 
Will  all  day,  and,  what  was  harder  still,  to  con- 
tent him  with  me.  It  isn't  easy  to  rouse  en- 
thusiasm in  a  man  who  is  all  the  time  trying  to 
overhear  what  another  man  is  saying  to  another 
girl,  and  wishing  said  other  man's  horse  would 
drop  him  over  the  edge  of  a  cliff;  but  I  finally 
did  it.  I  asked  him  if  he  didn't  think  Edith 
had  a  lovely  profile,  and  that  caught  his  atten- 
tion. Then  I  went  on  to  her  full  face,  and  he 
began  to  expand ;  and  by  the  time  I  had  reached 
her  eyelashes  he  was  all  responsiveness.  At 
the  end  of  half  an  hour  we  were  so  absorbed 
in  our  topic  that  we  nearly  took  the  wrong  trail. 

[300] 


My  Mother's  Diary 

Edith  was  rather  cool  to  me  afterwards,  which 
I  call  a  little  hard. 

At  the  1 3th,  my  mother  has  a  tiny  fern 
pasted  over  the  following: 

One  of  the  party  gathered  this  for  my 
diary,  as  it  would  suggest  the  mighty  handi- 
works of  nature  on  which  it  had  been  gazing  all 
its  brief  life,  and  added,  "  Take  the  bright  shell 
to  your  home  on  the  lea,  And  wherever  it  goes, 
it  will  sing  of  the  sea."  We  had  a  long  talk 
about  poetry  and  its  influence  on  the  emotions, 
which  I  considered  inferior  to  that  of  music. 
He  did  not  agree  with  me,  and  quoted  many 
beautiful  lines  from  Mrs.  Hemans  and  others 
to  convince  me,  as  we  strolled  up  and  down  in 
the  moonlight.  J.  was  disposed  to  resent  what 
he  called  my  desertion  of  him,  and  maintained 
a  gloomy  front  all  the  evening.  I  notice  in  him 
a  tendency  to  domineer  at  times,  due  to  his 
strong  nature.  He  needs  a  softening  influence. 

Yes,  Joseph,  I've  noticed  that  tendency 
in  you  occasionally,  too.  Poor  papa,  the  I3th 
is  an  unlucky  day  for  both  of  us!  If  I  were 
thirty  years  previous,  I  would  go  out  and  stroll 
with  you  in  the  moonlight  myself,  and  tell  you 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

how  "  The  rose  had  been  washed,  just  washed 
by  a  shower,  Which  Mary  to  Anna  conveyed,'' 
and  we  would  make  mother  and  Tom  wildly 
jealous.  We  aren't  fickle  things,  always  taking 
up  with  another  member  of  the  party.  Our 
heart  is  true  to  Poll,  isn't  it? 

June  14:  I  had  a  chance  this  afternoon 
to  show  Tom  how  Clingy  Vine  acts  in  an  emer- 
gency, but  pride  and  a  rival  in  that  line  pre- 
vented. We  were  going  along  a  narrow  trail 
when  Edith's  mule,  who  had  some  private 
grudge  against  mine,  sneaked  up  behind  and 
tried  to  take  a  piece  out  of  poor  Jonathan.  He 
shrieked  with  rage  and  surprise,  and  gave  an 
indignant  buck,  and,  before  I  could  recover, 
the  saddle  slipped  around,  and  I  found  myself 
riding  on  the  wrong  side  of  his  body.  Not 
being  skilled  in  the  Human  Fly  act,  I  promptly 
fell  off,  and  landed  with  a  large  part  of  me 
dangling  over  the  Yosemite  Fall.  Of  course  I 
was  picked  up  and  dusted  and  fussed  over  all 
in  a  second;  and  I  should  have  gone  into  hys- 
terics if  Edith  hadn't  got  in  ahead  of  me.  It 
was  selfish  of  her,  for  I  am  sure  my  nerves  were 
[302] 


My  Mother's  Diary 

more  upset  than  anybody's.  The  only  alter- 
native was  to  make  myself  as  disagreeable  as 
possible,  which  I  did.  Tom  wanted  to  do  all 
sorts  of  things — carry  me  home  was  one  of 
them,  I  believe — but  I  told  him  Edith  needed 
his  attention  more  than  I  did.  I  didn't  really 
suppose  he  would  be  discouraged  so  easily,  but 
he  fell  back  at  once,  and  made  her  drink  some 
brandy,  and  lent  her  his  handkerchief. 

This  is  the  record  of  our  last  day  in 
the  Valley,  for  we  leave  to-morrow  noon.  Next 
time  I  visit  Yosemite  I  am  coming  alone,  and 
then,  perhaps,  I  shall  have  some  time  for  the 
scenery.  Mother,  too,  seems  to  find  human 
relations  disturbing.  The  I4th  hasn't  a  word 
about  foaming  cataracts,  nor  even  a  Biblical 
quotation : 

There  are  some  things  about  J.  that  dis- 
turb me  not  a  little.  When  alone  with  me,  he 
shows  the  fullest  appreciation  of  the  marvels 
around  us,  and  a  marked  tendency  to  serious 
reflection;  but  when  amidst  a  crowd,  he  dis- 
plays a  certain  levity  that  jars,  a  mad  desire  to 
quiz  from  which  nothing  is  sacred.  His  humor 

[303] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

is  quick  and  sprightly,  and  I  cannot  help  laugh- 
ing at  his  jests,  which  serve  to  make  him  but 
the  more  popular  with  the  other  ladies;  but 
the  fear  that  they  are  the  outcome  of  a  certain 
lack  of  depth  spoils  my  enjoyment.  To-day, 
whilst  riding  along  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  his 
horse  hit  its  foot  against  a  stone  and  stumbled. 
Had  J.  been  a  poor  horseman,  they  might  both 
have  been  plunged  to  a  horrible  death.  The 
thought  of  it  even  now  blanches  my  cheek. 
Most  men  would  have  been  sobered  by  such  a 
possibility,  but  J.  showed  a  laughing  careless- 
ness that  jarred  on  my  sensibilities.  Am  I  too 
fanciful  ?  I  trust  and  pray  that  I  may  not  show 
myself  carping.  We  had  a  long  and  most  de- 
lightful talk  this  evening  on  the  beautifying 
influence  of  love,  the  glamour  it  casts  over  ob- 
jects otherwise  indifferent  or  even  unsightly.  In 
many  things  we  are  kindred  spirits. 

\ 

June  15 :  There  is  still  half  an  hour  be- 
fore the  stage  goes,  so  I  will  make  a  last  entry 
if  people  will  only  stop  talking  to  me.  We 
went  to  Mirror  Lake  early  this  morning,  I  cling- 
ing persistently  and  successfully  to  Will  until 
he  suddenly  saw  Edith  standing  all  alone,  gaz- 
[304] 


My  Mother's  Diary 

ing  pensively  at  her  own  reflection  in  the  water. 
That  was  too  much.  With  one  bound  he  had 
shaken  himself  free  and  was  off;  and  when  I 
collected  my  wits,  I  found  myself  discussing 
the  beauties  of  nature  with  Tom.  I  could  write 
yards  about  the  lovely  effects  I  saw  in  the  next 
half  hour,  but  it  all  condenses  down  to  the  fact 
that,  on  due  provocation,  I  told  Tom  I  loved 
him — which  any  idiot  might  have  discovered 
weeks  ago — and  he  explained  his  sentiments 
toward  me,  about  which  there  had  been  some 
little  confusion.  I  was  inclined  to  be  huffy 
when  I  found  that  Edith  had  been  merely  a 
blind,  a  ruse,  to  see  how  I  would  take  it.  I  told 
him  he  had  won  me  under  false  pretenses,  for  I 
never  should  have  accepted  him  so  promptly  if 
I  hadn't  supposed  he  was  trembling  in  the  bal- 
ance between  Edith  and  me.  But  I  am  happy 
enough  to  forgive  anybody  anything. 

He  is  pestering  me  now  to  come  out  for 
one  last  stroll,  but  I  must  take  a  look  at  moth- 
er's record  for  to-day.  What  if  she  and  her  J. 
chose  the  I5th  on  which  to  come  together,  too? 
I'll  just  glance,  for  my  dear  boy  is  saying  softly, 
[305] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

with  all  a  lover's  impressioned  romance,  "  Say, 
do  brace  up.  The  time  is  almost  gone/'  and 
adding  with  tender  pleading,  "  Won't  you  get 
a  move  on?  " 

I  am  sad  at  heart,  and  have  shed  many 
tears  this  beautiful  day.  Early  this  morning  J. 
and  I  walked  to  Mirror  Lake,  and  there  he  of- 
fered me  the  highest  honor  man  can  pay  woman. 
He  asked  me  to  be  his  wife.  Fond  as  I  am  of 
him,  much  as  I  admire  his  brilliant  qualities, 
I  feel  that  I  can  never  care  for  him  as  a  true 
wife  should,  and  told  him  so,  with  all  possible 
gentleness.  He  was  much  cast  down,  and  even 
my  offer  of  being  a  true  and  affectionate  sister 
to  him  did  little  to  lighten  his  misery.  I  trust 
I  have  not  been  to  blame  in  any  way  and  that 
he  will  not  let  one  disappointment  blight  his 
life.  Poor  dear  John! 

John!  Poor  dear  John?  Then  J.  didn't 
stand  for  Joseph,  and  it  wasn't  papa  at  all. 
And  after  all  those  deep,  soulful  talks,  and 
communings,  she  naively  hopes  she  hasn't  been 
to  blame  in  any  way !  My  dear  mother,  I  think 
you  must  have  forgotten  what  was  in  that  old 

[306] 


My  Mother's  Diary 

diary  when  you  said  I  might  take  it.  There 
are  some  things  that  even  your  frivolous  daugh- 
ter doesn't  do.  I  may  not  inspire  a  man  to 
lead  a  better  life,  but  I  don't  let  him  offer  him- 
self to  me  unless  I  mean  to  accept  him.  Yes, 
Tom,  I'm  coming.  My  mother's  diary  ends 
here,  but  across  the  corner  of  this  last  page  is 
written : 

Had  a  long  talk  with  another  member 
of  the  party.  He  asked  me  to  call  him  Joseph, 
and  I  said  I  would.  Small  conventionalities 
seem  out  of  place  in  this  grand  environment. 

And  this  while  poor  John  is  eating  his 
heart  out  with  grief !  O  mamma  ! 


[307] 


XVI 

A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

ADELAIDE'S  first  visit  to  her  grand- 
mother, paid  when  she  was  fourteen,  had  been 
the  most  wonderful  event  of  her  life — of  any 
girl's  life,  she  was  inclined  to  think.  In  spite 
of  her  mother's  proud  reminiscences,  a  childish 
conception  of  a  softly  shapeless  old  lady,  knit- 
ting by  a  sunny  window,  had  persisted  in  her 
expectations  as  the  inevitable  grandmother.  She 
was  prepared  to  be  driven  in  a  carryall  to  an 
old-fashioned  mansion,  shaded  by  elms,  in 
Fifty-second  Street,  New  York  City;  the  cat 
would  rise  from  its  red  cushion  at  her  timid 
entrance,  and  her  grandmother  would  give  her 
peppermints  between  naps  and  cups  of  tea. 
And  there  would  be  quaint  paintings,  pink  wild 
roses  on  black  panels,  sweetly  frail  ladies  with 
slanting  eyes  and  pointed  fingers,  since  her 
grandmother  had  in  her  day  been  known  as 
[308] 


A  foiled  Old  Lady 

Adelaide  Sayre,  the  artist.  Young  Adelaide 
had  gone  eagerly  prepared  to  be  the  daily  bless- 
ing and  comfort,  the  willing  runner  of  errands 
and  finder  of  spectacles,  that  any  earnest  reader 
of  Miss  Alcott  must  hold  as  the  ideal  grand- 
child. She  would  even  read  aloud  nightly  from 
the  Bible,  she  resolved  in  a  burst  of  devotion, 
as  she  followed  her  mother  from  the  train  at 
Forty-second  Street. 

The  whirl  of  new  sensations  that  suc- 
ceeded had  left  her  speechless,  weighted  by  a 
shy  awkwardness  that  was  smilingly  explained 
as  fatigue  from  the  long  journey.  The  pert 
little  dark-blue  brougham  had  been  the  first 
shock;  next  came  the  marble  halls  and  uni- 
formed boys,  the  big  elevator,  like  a  velvet- 
padded  room ;  and  then,  instead  of  a  kerchiefed 
knitter  under  the  elms,  a  handsome,  well- 
dressed,  energetic  woman,  a  gay,  voluble  per- 
son, obviously  not  in  the  least  in  need  of  a  lit- 
tle comfort,  who  laughed  and  ordered  every  one 
about,  and  said  witty,  delightful  things,  and 
glanced  into  the  mirror  whenever  she  passed  it, 
as  well  she  might. 

[309] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

And  the  paintings!  It  was  twenty-four 
hours  before  Adelaide  was  calm  enough  to  look 
at  them  and  banish  forever  any  idea  of  flower- 
wreathed  panels.  They  were  portraits  of  liv- 
ing men  and  women ;  big,  bold  figures,  as  salient 
from  the  canvas  as  her  grandmother's  person- 
ality from  the  dark  splendor  of  her  drawing- 
room.  The  reconstruction  had  to  be  complete: 
not  even  the  cat  survived. 

They  had  arrived  on  Monday,  and  so 
were  comfortably  settled  in  time  for  what  Mrs. 
Sayre  explained  as  her  Tuesday  evenings.  "  Let 
the  child  sit  up;  it  will  amuse  her,"  she  had 
said,  and  so,  about  the  time  Adelaide  should 
have  been  giving  her  first  granddaughterly 
reading  from  the  Bible,  she  was  lurking  in  a 
corner  in  her  best  gown,  and  saw  the  rooms  fill 
with  strange  and  brilliant  figures,  among  whom 
her  grandmother  moved  like  a  reigning  sov- 
ereign, surrounded  wherever  she  paused  by  a 
jovial  court.  She  kept  the  talk  and  laughter 
going  with  an  irresistible  enthusiasm,  and  they 
all,  young  and  old,  filled  every  chink  and  cranny 
in  the  gayety  with  a  compliment  to  her  charm 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

or  her  wit  or  her  looks,  and  there  was  not  one 
compliment  too  small  or  mean  to  bring  a  dim- 
pling smile,  though  even  then  Adelaide  noticed 
that  those  about  her  looks  pleased  her  most. 

The  evening  had  been  still  more  en- 
chanting when  Cousin  Emma,  a  kindly,  color- 
less person  who  did  the  marketing  and  ar- 
ranged the  flowers,  sat  down  beside  her  and 
told  her  who  the  various  visitors  were :  that  one 
had  written  books  that  were  in  the  library  at 
home,  another  edited  the  magazine  lying  on  the 
table,  another  had  painted  pictures  that  she 
must  be  taken  to  see.  It  was  an  evening  from 
a  fairy  tale.  And  when  a  writer  of  beloved 
stories  for  young  people  took  her  cordially  by 
the  hand  and  said  he  was  always  glad  to  meet 
anyone  whose  name  began  with  Adelaide  Sayre, 
no  matter  what  it  ended  with,  she  could  only 
dash  out  of  the  room  and  burst  into  tears  of 
sheer  glory. 

And  now  she  was  coming  back,  ten 
years  older,  schooled  and  colleged,  experienced 
in  social  doings,  with  several  offers  of  marriage 
to  her  credit,  and  an  energetic  theory  ready  for 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

every  aspect  of  life,  honest,  cocksure,  tender- 
hearted and  exceedingly  pretty,  to  visit  this  same 
wonderful  grandmother.  That  Mrs.  Sayre 
also  would  be  ten  years  older  she  accepted,  but 
did  not  quite  realize;  she  fancied  the  fairy  tale 
as  going  on  with  undiminished  splendor.  And 
this  time  she  was  to  be  a  part  of  it,  instead  of 
a  little  frightened  outsider;  the  thought  made 
her  lips  curve  joyously,  bringing  out  a  tempered 
resemblance  to  her  grandmother  Sayre. 

Cousin  Emma,  more  pallid  and  dim 
than  ever,  said  repeatedly  on  the  way  from  the 
station  how  glad  she  was  that  Adelaide  had 
come. 

"  You  will  do  your  grandmother  good," 
she  said,  not  without  wistfulness.  Adelaide,  re- 
membering her  little-comfort  aspirations  of  ten 
years  before,  smiled  to  herself. 

"  Grandmother  is  more  likely  to  do  me 
good,  I  imagine,"  she  said.  But  she  under- 
stood better  when  she  entered  the  drawing- 
room — not  quite  so  large  or  so  splendid  as  she 
remembered  it — and  took  her  grandmother's 
outstretched  hands.  Somewhere  in  the  interval 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

Mrs.  Sayre  had  crossed  the  line  and  entered 
the  territory  of  old  age,  but  not  willingly,  nor 
with  the  grace  of  patience.  She  had  chosen  to 
ignore  it,  as  she  might  have  ignored  a  muddy 
skirt  or  the  blunder  of  a  domestic. 

"  Well,  my  dear!  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
And  how  pretty  you  have  turned  out !  "  was  her 
greeting.  Adelaide  kissed  with  quick  compas- 
sion the  cheek  that  ten  years  before  had  been 
so  firm  and  smooth,  and  whose  color  had  been 
the  natural  autumn  of  maturity  instead  of  this 
pitiful  glazed  pink. 

"  Mother  has  hopes  that  I  shall  grow 
to  look  like  you,  grandmother,"  she  answered; 
then  wondered  if  she  had  said  anything  to  of- 
fend, in  the  blank  pause  that  followed.  Cousin 
Emma,  under  pretense  of  helping  her  to  un- 
hook her  boa,  murmured  hastily: 

"  Speak  more  slowly  and  distinctly." 

"  If  you  and  Adelaide  have  secrets  to 
whisper  about,  Emma,  I  will  leave  you  to- 
gether," was  the  sharp  interruption. 

"Indeed,  no,  dear!"  Emma  pleaded. 
"  Adelaide,  don't  you  think  it  is  amazing  how 

[313] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

little  your  grandmother  has  changed  in  ten 
years?" 

"  I  think  I  have  changed  more  than 
either  of  you,"  said  Adelaide. 

Mrs.  Sayre  smiled  indulgently.  "  But 
very  much  for  the  better,  my  dear!  But  you 
must  be  tired;  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  your 
room.  I  beg  you,  Emma,  keep  your  shawl  for 
your  own  rheumatic  shoulders !  I  am  not  quite 
in  my  dotage."  She  led  the  way  with  tremu- 
lous dignity,  her  handsome  gown,  accented 
waist  line  and  firmly  tailored  shoulders  con- 
trasting oddly  with  the  curved  back  of  old  age, 
which  no  padding  or  lacing  could  mitigate. 
Cousin  Emma  followed  meekly,  the  rejected 
shawl  held  as  unobtrusively  as  possible  over  one 
arm. 

"  We  shall  have  gay  times,  you  and 
I,  Adelaide,"  her  grandmother  announced,  a 
gleam  of  the  old  briskness  in  her  eyes  and  voice. 
"  Emma  will  have  her  hands  full  chaperoning 
us.  Now  I  want  you  to  rest,  for  you  know  this 
is  one  of  my  Tuesday  evenings.  The  crowd 
changes  from  year  to  year — I  grow  more  ex- 

[314] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

elusive  and  admit  fewer;  but  it  never  falls  off 
in  quality,  does  it,  Emma?  " 

"  Indeed,  no.  You  always  have  won- 
derful people,"  Emma  said,  with  an  eagerness 
that  was  dimly  apologetic.  Mrs.  Sayre  ac- 
cepted this  with  a  dignified  patience  that  seemed 
to  say,  "  Of  course  poor  Emma  cannot  help 
being  obvious  and  tiresome,  but  I  think  she  does 
appreciate  me." 

"  I  have  sent  for  young  Dwight  Mar- 
shall to  entertain  you,  Adelaide,"  she  went  on. 
"  His  father  was  an  old  love  of  mine.  He 
would  do  anything  for  me  till  the  hour  of  his 
death — though  he  married  a  very  worthy  lit- 
tle person  from  the  West  and  was  always  good 
to  her." 

"  And  the  son  seems  to  have  inherited 
the  devotion,"  Cousin  Emma  put  in.  "  He 
sends  Aunt  Adelaide  a  great  box  of  roses  every 
Christmas,  just  as  his  father  used  to  do.  He 
thinks  the  world  of  her." 

"  Oh,  Emma  exaggerates !  "  But  Mrs. 
Sayre  was  evidently  not  displeased.  She  sub- 
mitted to  the  shawl  as  she  turned  to  leave;  or, 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

rather,  ignored  its  quiet  placing  across  her 
shoulders.  In  the  doorway  she  paused. 

'  You  see,  I  have  put  you  in  the  room 
next  to  mine,"  she  said  graciously.  "  Some- 
times I  sleep  badly,  and  reading  aloud  is  not 
Emma's  forte!  She  is  a  good  soul"  (with  an 
affable  nod),  "  but  she  stumbles  among  the 
words  like  a  child  learning  to  walk.  I  think  her 
eyes  are  failing,  but  she  is  too  vain  to  admit 
it."  She  shook  her  head  in  humorous  reproach. 

"  Everybody's  eyes  can't  be  as  wonder- 
ful as  yours,  dear  aunt,"  Adelaide  heard  Emma 
say  as  she  closed  the  door. 

Still  in  her  hat  and  coat,  the  girl  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  stared  dubi- 
ously at  her  boots.  Disappointment,  dismay, 
pity,  indignation  even,  crowded  her  tired  brain, 
culminating  in  a  forlorn  laugh. 

"  Anyway,  the  Tuesday  evenings  still 
go  on,"  she  reflected,  rising  with  a  sigh  to  put 
away  her  things. 

Adelaide  appeared  in  the  drawing-room 
just  before  dinner,  wearing  her  prettiest  gown, 
a  flush  of  renewed  anticipation  in  her  cheeks. 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

Cousin  Emma,  who  was  there  alone,  dressed  in 
dim,  drab  colors,  looked  uneasily  at  the  deep 
folds  of  soft  old  blue  falling  all  about  the  little 
bronze  slippers,  the  bare  shoulders,  the  velvet 
bow  in  the  bright  bronze  hair. 

"  My  dear,  must  you  wear  that?  "  she 
asked,  rising  nervously  to  her  feet. 

"  But  why  not?  "  Adelaide  looked  be- 
wildered. "  Do  you  mean  the  low  neck? 
Doesn't  everyone?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  and  you  look 
lovely."  Cousin  Emma  hesitated  and  flushed. 
"  Only,  you  see,  your  grandmother — she  can- 
not wear  what  she  once  could,  and  it  is  natu- 
rally hard  for  her  to  see — "  She  broke  down 
under  Adelaide's  stare  of  honest  noncompre- 
hension.  "  Of  course,  you  look  lovely;  only, 
when  one  has  been  the  center  for  so  many 
years —  Oh,  Aunt  Adelaide,  and  this  is  the 
new  lavender  silk!  Doesn't  she  look  like  a 
piece  of  Dresden,  Adelaide?  " 

The  old  lady  came  forward  graciously, 
smiling  with  satisfaction,  her  elaborate  head 
high,  her  little  blue  eyes  glancing  under  a  fine 

[317] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

lady  droop  of  wrinkled  lids  above  the  pitiful 
pink  of  her  cheeks.  But  the  satisfaction  died 
abruptly  when  she  saw  her  granddaughter, 
fresh  and  lovely,  careless  of  where  the  light 
fell  on  her  girlish  throat  and  shoulders. 

"H'm!  You  look  very  fine,"  she  said 
shortly.  "  I  wore  things  like  that  myself  once." 
Her  hand  went  to  the  chiffon  folds  that  swathed 
her  throat  almost  to  the  ears.  "  You  will  have 
all  the  cavaliers  to  yourself,  which,  I  suppose, 
is  all  you  care  about.  Emma,  when  will  dinner 
be  ready?  This  is  the  third  time  within  a  week 
that  I  have  had  to  wait  and  wait." 

Emma  apologized  and  soothed  and 
complimented,  but  to  little  purpose.  Mrs. 
Sayre  ate  her  dinner  in  aggressive  silence, 
broken  by  an  occasional  sharp  comment  upon 
the  follies  and  vanities  of  youth.  Adelaide 
tried  her  best  to  be  brightly  unconscious  of  the 
atmosphere;  but  she  was  hurt  and  astonished, 
and  not  a  little  indignant.  Jealous  of  one's 
own  grandchild?  It  was  incredible.  After 
dinner  Cousin  Emma  tried  deviously  to  get  a 
private  word  with  her,  some  urgent  request  dis- 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

tending  her  pale  eyes;  but  Adelaide  was  in  no 
mood  to  make  concessions,  and  would  not  see 
the  cautious  signals. 

Then  Dwight  Marshall  came,  boyish, 
thickset,  friendly  and  direct — "  her  kind,"  as 
she  decided  with  quick  satisfaction.  She  knew 
in  two  minutes  that  he  found  her  charming; 
and  yet  he  was  evidently  in  the  secret,  for  he 
talked  almost  exclusively  to  Mrs.  Sayre  until 
the  rooms  began  to  fill. 

Not  that  they  actually  filled,  as  in  the 
old  days;  but  Adelaide  counted  some  twenty 
arrivals.  At  first  she  was  too  absorbed  in  meet- 
ing the  individuals  to  see  the  assemblage  as  a 
whole.  Her  little  blue  eyes  and  bronze  hair 
and  the  sweeping  folds  of  old  blue  silk  brought 
her  instant  importance,  and  she  was  talking 
with  happy  animation  to  an  increasing  group 
when  a  glimpse  of  Cousin  Emma's  face,  dis- 
tressed almost  to  tears,  made  her  look  about, 
startled.  Over  by  the  table  where  the  coffee 
service  was  always  placed  sat  her  grandmother, 
quite  alone.  Her  court  was  surrounding  Ade- 
laide. 

[319] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

The  girl  hesitated  in  dismay,  uncertain 
how  to  act:  Mrs.  Sayre's  face  did  not  invite 
artless  approach.  But  the  others,  following 
her  glance,  evidently  understood,  for  one  by  one 
they  began  to  drift  over  to  the  coffee  table. 
Mrs.  Sayre  did  not  unbend  readily,  but  they 
drew  up  chairs  and  begged  for  coffee  and  ad- 
mired her  lavender  gown  until  finally  the  thin 
lips  relaxed  and  she  shone  upon  them  again,  a 
wintry  warmth  not  without  an  occasional  nip 
to  it. 

Adelaide,  left  free  to  move  about,  real- 
ized for  the  first  time  the  strangeness  of  the 
assemblage.  There  were  white-bearded  old 
men,  feeble  or  weary,  with  the  keenness  of  their 
eyes  faded  to  dim  kindliness,  notably  one  who 
strayed  persistently  from  group  to  group  assur- 
ing each  with  a  childish  laugh  that  he  had  not 
missed  one  of  Mrs.  Sayre's  Tuesdays  in  thirty 
years.  There  were  women  who  suggested  queer 
cults,  women  with  massive  noses  or  projecting 
teeth  or  high,  rapid  voices  echoing  long  years 
of  argument;  wisps  of  vegetarianism  and  dull, 
complacent  widows  of  great  men  long  dead; 

[320] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

Illustrators  of  obscure  magazines,  singers  whom 
no  one  ever  asked  to  sing.  Two  young  women, 
eager-eyed  for  celebrities,  pursued  Cousin 
Emma  with  excited  whispers  of,  "  Who  is  that 
one?  What  does  he  do?"  and  were  plainly 
disappointed  in  the  answers. 

"  Nothing  but  dictionary  makers  and 
relatives  of  dead  authors !  "  Adelaide  heard  one 
of  them  complain  to  the  other.  It  was  a  mot- 
ley, shabby  crowd;  the  splendid  court  of  ten 
years  before  had  suffered  a  grievous  enchant- 
ment. 

Did  Mrs.  Sayre  know?  She  was  mov- 
ing among  them  with  as  much  of  her  old-time 
air  as  her  feebler  carriage  could  convey,  seem- 
ing wholly  complacent  at  the  cracked  and  an- 
cient homage.  The  compliments  had  grown 
vapid,  foolish,  but  no  chance  for  one  was  passed 
over:  that  seemed  to  be  the  recognized  price  of 
admission.  Why  they  came  could  be  surmised: 
a  very  few  for  old  times'  sake,  the  majority  be- 
cause they  had  nowhere  else  to  go,  or  because 
the  glamour  of  a  past  exclusiveness  still  made 
their  admission  seem  a  triumph;  one  or  two, 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

perhaps,  because  they  actually  needed  the  coffee 
and  cake.  They  petted  Mrs.  Sayre  and  re- 
peated themselves  dutifully  at  her  impatient 
"What's  that?  What's  that?  How  you  all 
do  mumble !  "  and  smiled  or  sighed  about  her 
in  corners  when  they  could  escape  from  court 
duty.  The  calm  satisfaction  of  her  bearing 
suddenly  reminded  Adelaide  of  a  broken-down 
prima  donna  she  had  once  seen  bowing  to  the 
applause,  half  derisive  and  half  kindly,  of  a 
vaudeville  audience,  and  she  could  have  burst 
into  tears  as  she  did  ten  years  before.  She 
turned  abruptly  away,  and  so  came  face  to  face 
with  Dwight  Marshall  while  her  eyes  were  still 
full  of  distress. 

He  seemed  to  understand. 

"  Your  grandmother  has  been  a  remark- 
able woman  in  her  day,"  he  said  with  grave 
directness.  "  People  will  always  be  very  kind 
to  her." 

"  Kind?  You  call  this  kind?  "  There 
was  indignation  in  the  protest.  "  They  are  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  her,  they  are  humoring  her  and 
then  laughing  at  her.  It  isn't  kind!  How 
[322] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

do  you  think  she  would  feel  if  she  saw  herself 
as  you  all  see  her?  It  would  kill  her.  People 
have  petted  her  vanity  till  it  has  blinded  and 
deafened  her,  and  she  was  too  fine  to  be  treated 
like  that.  If  I  found  you  had  a  weakness  for 
drink,  and  then  on  every  occasion  I  urged  it  on 
you  until  you  could  not  live  without  it,  would 
you  call  that  kind?  " 

Marshall  looked  startled.  "  No  one 
meant  it  in  that  way,"  he  protested. 

"  It  isn't  as  if  she  were  feeble-minded 
— so  old  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  keep 
her  amused  till  the  end,"  Adelaide  went  on 
more  calmly.  "She  is  still  a  capable  citizen; 
a  little  deafness  won't  let  her  out  of  her  respon- 
sibilities. She  understands  well  enough,  I  am 
sure  of  it;  so  did  the  prima  donna — only  you 
don't  know  about  that.  It  is  not  that  I  don't 
respect  old  age,  Mr.  Marshall,  truly.  Only 
don't  you  think  even  old  age  has  to  help  earn 
its  respect?  Do  I  sound  hard?  " 

He  obviously  did  not  think  her  hard; 
but  he  would  not  agree. 

"  I   don't  see   how  you  can   discipline 

[323] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

people  who  are  over  sixty,"  he  said.  "  They 
get  what  they  demand." 

"  People  have  to  be  disciplined  at  any 
age  if  they  need  it.  And  she  does."  Adelaide 
relaxed  into  a  smile.  "  She  is  the  most  spoiled 
old  lady  I  ever  met !  "  He  looked  amused. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it? 
You  know  there  is  a  vulgar  saying,  '  Don't  teach 
your  grandmother '  ' 

"  I  know ;  you  need  not  finish  it.  I  don't 
see  why  I  should  not  unspoil  her  a  little,  quite 
politely.  I  certainly  shall  not  offer  up  a  com- 
pliment for  every  breath  she  draws."  Then 
she  colored  with  a  sudden  thought.  "  I  have 
not  meant  to  be  disloyal,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  Oh,  I  am  almost  one  of  the  family," 
he  reassured  her.  Obviously  he  did  not  think 
her  disloyal. 

When  the  last  guest  had  gone,  Adelaide 
tumbled  wearily  into  bed,  too  tired  even  to  take 
down  her  hair.  After  two  hours  of  what  she 
called  "  stumping  sleep,"  a  dull  sound,  repeated 
at  intervals,  dragged  her  back  to  consciousness. 
When  she  realized  that  it  was  a  knocking  on 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

the  wall  beside  her,  her  senses  cleared  with  a 
start,  and,  catching  up  a  wrapper,  she  ran  into 
her  grandmother's  room  with  a  sinking  appre- 
hension of  vague  terrors  known  as  "  attack " 
and  "  seizure." 

Mrs.  Sayre  was  sitting  up  in  bed, 
wrapped  in  a  pale-blue  dressing  gown,  a  shaded 
lamp  at  her  elbow. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  impressively,  "  I 
have  not  closed  my  eyes.  I  am  sorry  to  awaken 
you,  but  then  young  people  go  right  to  sleep 
again.  Suppose  you  read  to  me  for  a  while;  I 
am  sure  your  voice  is  soothing." 

u  Yes,  certainly.  I  will  get  on  some- 
thing warmer."  At  the  instant,  Adelaide  felt 
only  relief,  though  there  was  a  suppressed  firm- 
ness in  her  movements  when  she  came  back 
from  her  room  a  few  moments  later.  A  mem- 
ory of  the  projected  Bible  readings  of  ten  years 
ago  made  her  smile  a  little  grimly  as  she  took 
up  the  indicated  novel. 

The  reading  was  so  successful  that  in 
half  an  hour  the  wrinkled  lids  had  drooped  over 
the  little  blue  eyes.  Adelaide  let  her  voice  grad- 

[325] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

ually  die  down,  then  put  out  the  light  and  stole 
away.  It  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  get 
to  sleep  herself. 

"  Adelaide  is  an  excellent  reader,"  said 
Mrs.  Sayre  contentedly  in  the  morning.  "  I 
think  she  will  be  a  great  comfort  to  me."  Ade- 
laide tried  to  look  gratified,  but  the  idea  of  be- 
ing a  comfort  seemed  to  have  lost  some  of  its 
glamour  in  the  last  ten  years. 

Three  times  during  the  week  that  fol- 
lowed the  knocking  on  the  wall  brought  Ade- 
laide scrambling  back  from  slumber.  She  be- 
gan to  sleep  uneasily,  expecting  to  be  called  and 
starting  up  at  imaginary  sounds.  When 
Dwight  Marshall  accused  her  of  looking 
fagged,  she  ruefully  confessed  the  truth,  on  the 
accepted  basis  that  he  was  almost  one  of  the 
family. 

"  Of  course,  if  she  were  ill  I  should 
think  nothing  of  it,"  she  protested.  "  But  it  is 
just  that  she  likes  the  amusement;  she  is  simply 
spoiled." 

"  Put  dope  in  her  coffee,"  he  suggested. 

"  She  ought  to  give  the  coffee  up;  that 

[326] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

would  be  the  sensible  thing,"  was  the  energetic 
answer.  Marshall  smiled;  he  liked  her  em- 
phatic assertions. 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  would  sleep  through 
the  knocking,"  he  said. 

The  words  came  back  to  her  that  night, 
checking  a  startled  impulse  to  rise  at  the  famil- 
iar summons.  She  covered  her  ears  and  lay 
guiltily  still.  Mrs.  Sayre  rapped  again,  and 
then  again,  more  sharply.  Adelaide  stealthily 
pulled  the  pillow  over  her  head.  The  knocking 
persisted  for  half  an  hour,  but  without  success. 
Mrs.  Sayre  was  probably  asleep  long  before  her 
grandchild  was. 

"  Dear  me,  Adelaide,  you  slept  like  the 
dead  last  night,"  was  her  greeting  in  the  morn- 
ing. "  I  could  not  rouse  you." 

"  I  was  very  tired,"  Adelaide  began 
evasively,  then  took  a  courageous  resolve. 
"  You  see,  I  am  not  used  to  being  waked  up  in 
the  night,"  she  said  brightly,  "  and  it  has  made 
me  sleep  very  brokenly  and  badly.  Don't  you 
suppose,  if  I  read  to  you  before  I  went  to  bed, 
that  would  get  you  to  sleep  earlier?  " 

[327] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Mrs.  Sayre  was  eying  her  more  in  as- 
tonishment than  anger. 

"  H'm !  Emma  has  never  complained 
at  being  waked  in  the  night, "  she  said. 

"  Well,  Cousin  Emma  looks  very  worn 
and  nervous.  You  know,  dear  grandmother, 
she  ought  not  to  seem  a  dozen  years  older  than 
you !  "  This  concession  to  policy  softened  re- 
sentment to  plaintiveness. 

"  Young  people  think  only  of  them- 
selves! If  you  knew  what  it  is  to  lie  awake 
hour  after  hour " 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  your  coffee — " 
Adelaide  ventured. 

"  Nonsense!  Coffee  never  hurt  me  yet," 
was  the  impatient  answer,  and  the  subject  was 
dropped.  Nevertheless,  Adelaide  did  not  seem 
to  have  lost  favor  by  her  stand.  And  she  was 
not  wakened  again. 

"  Having  succeeded,  I  feel  rather  un- 
kind and  ashamed,"  she  confided  to  Dwight 
Marshall  in  one  of  the  rare  moments  when  they 
were  left  together.  As  a  rule,  Mrs.  Sayre  mo- 
nopolized his  calls. 

[328] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

"  But  it  is  missionary  work — the  un- 
spoiling  of  a  grandmother,"  he  said  teasingly. 
"  I  am  immensely  interested,  you  know.  Do 
you  mind  if  I  come  very  often — to  hear  the 
reports?  " 

She  admitted  gravely  that  she  did  not 
mind.  Then  their  eyes  met,  and  they  laughed. 
"  Oh,  I  do  like  New  York!  "  thought  Adelaide 
breathlessly. 

Her  grandmother,  coming  in  later, 
found  Marshall's  card  on  the  table. 

"  I  have  been  in  all  the  afternoon,"  she 
said  indignantly.  "  Why  was  I  not  told  he  was 
here?" 

"  I  believe  you  were  lying  down,  grand- 
mother," Adelaide  began.  Then  the  approval 
in  Emma's  pale  eyes  warned  her  that  she  was 
slipping.  "  Besides,  I  really  think  he  came  to 
see  me  this  time,"  she  added  frankly.  Cousin 
Emma  made  a  sign  of  dismayed  warning. 
Mrs.  Sayre,  still  holding  the  card,  eyed  her  and 
her  pretty  white  gown  in  cold  astonishment. 

u  I  suppose  you  think  that  of  everyone 
who  comes  to  the  house,"  she  said  ironically. 
[329] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"Indeed,  I  don't!  But  Mr.  Marshall 
— well,  honestly,  grandmother,  isn't  it  sort  of 
natural?  "  Mrs.  Sayre's  mood  wavered  a  mo- 
ment, then  she  actually  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"  Well,  honestly,  my  dear,  I  suppose  it 
is !  "  she  admitted.  "  The  old  women  must  ex- 
pect to  go  into  the  background,"  she  added  with 
a  sigh. 

"  Indeed,  Aunt  Adelaide,  no  one  who 
saw  your  Tuesday  nights  could  think  that," 
Emma  put  in  eagerly.  Mrs.  Sayre  ignored  this, 
and  sat  with  her  keen  old  eyes  meditating  on 
Adelaide  in  a  way  that  made  the  latter  tremble 
for  what  might  be  coming.  It  proved  even 
worse  than  she  had  expected. 

"  You  have  seen  two  of  my  Tuesdays, 
Adelaide.  What  do  you  think  of  them?  " 

Cousin  Emma  was  aquiver  with  signals. 
The  giiTs  color  rose,  but  she  answered  stur- 
dily: 

"  I  think,  dear  grandmother,  that  they 
are  not  worthy  of  you." 

"  Worthy    of   me !      I    should    like    to 
know  what  you  mean  by  that!  " 
[330] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

"  I  don't  think  most  of  those  who  come 
are — good  enough,"  Adelaide  persisted;  "  and 
some  of  them  are  not  even  real  friends." 

Mrs.  Sayre  was  plainly  angry. 

"  No  doubt  my  circle  is  not  just  what 
you  have  been  accustomed  to  in  Portland, 
Oregon,"  she  said  blandly.  "  You  must  forgive 
me  if  I  do  not  consider  you  qualified  to  judge 
a  New  York  assemblage.  Emma,  what  are  you 
making  faces  about?  It  is  a  most  annoying 
habit.  If  you  will  indicate  the  sort  of  persons 
you  are  pining  for,  Adelaide,  I  will  send  cards, 
though  I  rarely  increase  my  circle."  Adelaide 
was  persistently  good-tempered. 

"  You  asked  for  my  honest  opinion, 
grandmother,"  she  said  plaintively;  "it  isn't 
fair  to  snub  me  because  I  gave  it !  " 

"  One  must  be  patient  with  the  crude 
ignorance  of  youth,"  said  Mrs.  Sayre,  turning 
away.  She  was  reserved  and  haughty  at  din- 
ner and  all  the  evening,  ignoring  Adelaide's 
bright  friendliness  as  well  as  Emma's  consola- 
tory flattery;  but  when  Adelaide  was  putting 
out  her  light  that  night,  a  knock  on  the  wall 

[331] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

summoned  her.  She  went  with  alacrity,  feeling 
secretly  guilty  and  troubled. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Sayre  formally, 
"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  think  that  I  disapprove 
of  your  frankness.  There  is  even  a  certain  re- 
lief in  it;  Emma  is  cloying  at  times.  When  you 
are  more  at  home  here,  you  will  find  that  there 
are  some  fine  and  valued  persons  at  my  Tues- 
day gatherings.  I  have  no  objection  to  saying 
that  there  are  also  some  very  tiresome  old 
frumps.  Good  night." 

Adelaide  impulsively  took  the  frail  old 
hand  and  kissed  it.  It  was  a  warmly  real  trib- 
ute. The  fixed  dignity  of  her  grandmother's 
face  softened  to  a  smile  when  she  was  alone. 

From  that  night  dated  Mrs.  Sayre's  de- 
pendence on  her  grandchild — a  reserved  de- 
pendence, seldom  expressed,  yet  showing  daily 
more  plainly.  Cousin  Emma  had  made  several 
attempts  to  reduce  Adelaide's  plumage  to  her 
own  dim  drabs,  but  the  girl  had  firmly  con- 
tinued to  make  herself  look  as  pretty  as  pos- 
sible, and  her  grandmother's  hostility  had  grad- 
ually diminished.  She  now  began  to  consult 

[332] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

Adelaide  about  her  own  clothes,  somewhat  to 
the  latter's  dismay,  for  her  honesty  was  her 
most  cherished  principle  as  well  as  her  strong- 
est impulse,  and  there  was  scant  room  for  it  in 
Mrs.  Sayre's  wardrobe.  On  a  morning  that 
Adelaide  never  forgot,  she  went,  an  unwilling 
prisoner  in  the  little  blue  brougham,  to  help 
choose  an  evening  gown.  The  dressmaker,  an 
adroit  and  soothing  Frenchwoman,  showed  soft 
grays  and  lustrous  black-and-whites,  but  Mrs. 
Sayre's  fancy  was  caught  by  the  shimmer  of  a 
delicate  rose  crepe. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  could  not  wear 
that,"  she  said  critically.  "  Pink  was  always  my 
color." 

The  dressmaker  was  of  the  opinion  that 
madame  could  wear  it  charmingly.  She  threw 
folds  of  it  over  Mrs.  Sayre's  shoulder,  adroitly 
lowering  the  shade  of  the  big  window  by  the 
mirror,  and  turned  to  Adelaide  with  the  trium- 
phant air  of  a  conjurer  who  has  produced  the 
rabbit.  Then  she  disappeared  in  quest  of  the 
exactly  appropriate  lace. 

Mrs.  Sayre  studied  her  image  compla- 

[333] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

cently  in  the  long  triple  mirror,  while  Adelaide 
turned  away,  sick  at  heart.  There  was  some- 
thing ghastly  in  the  contrast  of  that  fresh,  deli- 
cate rose  with  the  worn  face  and  curved  back. 
The  pink  of  the  sunken  cheeks  seemed  to  stand 
out  ironically. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think,  my  dear?  " 
The  cheerful  question  set  her  heart  throbbing 
heavily. 

"  Let  us  try  this  gray  again,  grand- 
mother," she  suggested.  "  I  don't  know  but 
that  it  is  prettier."  Mrs.  Sayre  was  instantly 
suspicious. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  am  too  old  for 
this,"  she  said  sharply.  "  I  can't  see  why  young 
girls  should  monopolize  the  pretty  things." 

"Nor  I,"  Adelaide  was  glad  to  assent; 
but  she  could  not  get  off  with  that. 

"  Well,  then,  why  do  you  disapprove  of 
the  pink?  " 

She  hesitated,  then  firmly  clutched  her 
courage.  "  It  does  not  seem  to  me  as  becoming 
as  the  gray.  It  makes  you  look  older." 

Mrs.  Sayre  frowned  into  the  glass. 
[334] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

"  I  do  not  see  it,"  she  said  severely. 
'  The  room  is  absurdly  dark;  suppose  you  pull 
up  that  shade." 

Adelaide  meant  to  lift  the  shade  an  inch 
or  two,  but  the  cord  slipped  from  her  fingers 
and  it  shot  up  to  the  top,  letting  in  a  merciless 
stream  of  light.  She  stood  helpless  in  an  an- 
guish of  pity  as  the  old  lady  stared  at  herself, 
unmistakably  artificial,  old,  and  unbeautiful, 
growing  slowly  pale  about  her  compressed  lips. 
Adelaide  saw  a  shaking  hand  pressing  heavily 
on  a  chair  back,  yet  could  not  lift  her  eyes  from 
the  fashion  plates  she  was  blindly  turning. 

The  dressmaker  came  back,  her  hands 
full  of  lace.  Mrs.  Sayre  turned  away  from  the 
mirror. 

"  I  like  this  very  well,"  she  said  in  her 
usual  assured  tones.  "  I  think  I  will  order  it, 
but  I  will  take  a  day  to  consider.  You  might 
save  the  gray,  too.  Well,  Adelaide,  shall  we 
do  any  more  shopping?  I  believe  I  am  rather 
tired." 

"  Do  let  us  go  home,"  said  Adelaide 
eagerly.  Later,  in  the  brougham,  she  pressed 

[335] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

her  cheek  for  an  instant  against  her  grand- 
mother's shoulder. 

*  You  are  so  splendid,"  she  murmured 
impulsively.  "  I  am  proud  to  belong  to  you !  " 

4  You  are  a  good  child,  Adelaide,"  was 
the  bland  answer.  If  Mrs.  Sayre  suffered,  no 
one  saw  it,  though  she  looked  haggard  in  the 
morning,  as  though  from  sleeplessness.  Nei- 
ther the  gray  nor  the  pink  was  ordered.  And 
so  ended  the  days  of  her  splendor. 

"  Everyone  has  to  face  things,"  Ade- 
laide argued  to  her  troubled  heart,  still  shrink- 
ing at  the  white  shock  she  had  witnessed. 

An  unexpected  result  of  this  incident 
was  the  growth  of  a  veiled  pride  in  Adelaide's 
freshness  and  charm.  With  the  end  of  her  own 
triumphs  confronting  her,  Mrs.  Sayre  seemed 
to  transfer  to  the  girl's  interests  a  measure  of 
the  restless  vanity  that  had  hitherto  been  all  for 
herself.  She  became  greedy  of  compliments 
for  Adelaide,  though  she  was  still  sufficiently 
human  not  to  repeat  them.  A  shade  of  haugh- 
tiness crept  over  the  bland  satisfaction  of  her 
Tuesday  evening  manner.  Once  she  inter- 

[336] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

rupted  a  laborious  admirer,  dutifully  paying 
for  his  coffee,  with  a  disconcerting  "  Non- 
sense !  "  adding  at  his  astonished  stare,  "  You 
see  that  child  over  there?  Keep  your  admira- 
tion for  her — only  she  is  too  good  for  it !  "  He 
edged  away  and  confided  to  a  brother  sycophant 
that  the  old  lady  was  failing  very  fast,  and  they 
ate  a  double  quantity  of  cake  in  melancholy 
foreboding. 

And  it  was  true;  Mrs.  Sayre  was  fail- 
ing. The  signs  seemed  to  come  from  every  di- 
rection at  once,  as  though  they  had  long  been 
preparing  and  only  awaited  some  signal.  She 
began  to  shrink  from  her  rigorously  fashion- 
able clothes,  appearing  most  often  in  a  softly 
shapeless  black  cashmere,  and  the  pitiful  pink 
showed  in  her  cheeks  only  on  Tuesday  nights. 
These  occasions  seemed  to  tire  her  out,  and 
there  came  one  when,  having  a  slight  cold,  she 
consented  to  let  Adelaide  make  her  excuses  to 
her  guests.  When  the  girl  was  dressed,  she 
called  her  in  and  looked  at  her  with  quiet  satis- 
faction. 

"  You  will  do;  you  are  a  worthy  repre- 
[337] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 
sentative,  my  dear,"  she  said.     "  They  will  not 


miss  me." 


"  I  shall  miss  you,"  said  Adelaide  with 
a  quick  impulse  of  tenderness.  "  As  for  those 
old  frumps,"  daringly,  "  we  don't  care,  do 
we?" 

"  Not  especially !  "  with  a  faint  smile. 

The  evening  dragged  heavily.  Most 
of  the  old  habitues  had  dropped  off  during  the 
winter,  and  the  assemblage,  freed  from  the  re- 
straint of  Mrs.  Sayre's  presence,  seemed  to  Ade- 
laide more  strange  and  sycophantic  and  greedy 
than  ever.  She  resented  their  familiar  ease  in 
the  dignified  luxury  of  her  grandmother's  draw- 
ing-room, their  loud  voices  and  open  relief  in 
the  freedom  from  court  duty.  Several  had  lit 
cigarettes:  "We  know  you  don't  mind — you're 
too  jolly!  "  they  explained  to  Adelaide. 

"  Wouldn't  I  like  to  turn  them  all  out !  " 
was  her  fierce  thought  as  eleven  o'clock  came 
and  they  showed  no  signs  of  leaving.  Some  one 
had  brought  a  new  guest,  a  red-haired  young 
man  aggressively  at  ease,  who  had  been  ad- 
dressing her  at  intervals  with  a  cheerful  "  Say," 

[338] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

and  he  was  now  called  on  for  one  of  his  evi- 
dently famous  monologues. 

He  prepared  for  his  act  by  putting  on 
a  derby  hat  very  much  over  one  eye  and  turning 
up  his  coat  collar,  and  took  his  place  opposite 
the  lounging  semicircle.  Several  had  pulled 
Mrs.  Sayre's  velvet  cushions  to  the  floor  and 
were  seated  on  them,  familiar  elbows  resting 
on  her  stately  brocade  couches ;  a  young  woman 
with  her  foot  tucked  under  her  occupied  the 
chair  of  state  by  the  solemn  mahogany  table 
and  peered  freely  into  the  coffeepot  when  her 
cup  was  empty.  A  thin  drift  of  smoke  hung 
under  the  chandelier. 

"  Me  nyme  is  Artie,"  began  the  monolo- 
gist,  then  stopped  short  with  a  dismayed  stare 
that  led  all  eyes  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
The  portieres  had  parted,  and  Mrs.  Sayre,  in 
all  the  glory  of  lavender  silk,  old  lace  and  dia- 
monds, stood  quietly  surveying  the  scene.  The 
pink  of  her  cheeks  was  war  paint  to  their 
shocked  nerves. 

They  started  to  scramble  to  their  feet, 
but  she  checked  them  with  a  gesture. 
[339] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  I  beg  you  will  not  let  me  interrupt," 
she  said  pleasantly.  "  I  am  anxious  to  hear. 
I  have  always  been  fond  of  a  good  recitation." 
She  took  the  chair  some  one  pushed  forward 
for  her  and  turned  her  keen  little  blue  eyes,  ter- 
rible in  their  bland  courtesy,  on  the  speaker. 
The  others  sank  back  shamefacedly,  or  slipped 
into  chairs,  extinguishing  their  cigarettes  in 
their  coffee  cups.  The  monologist  stammered 
an  excuse,  but  Mrs.  Sayre  was  inexorable,  so  he 
went  through  his  act  with  desperate  bravado  to 
such  empty  laughter  as  they  could  manage. 
When  it  was  over,  she  thanked  him  with  a  mer- 
ciless politeness  and  made  a  stately  tour  through 
the  awkward  groups,  pausing  to  speak  to  each. 
Some  one  made  an  eager  move  to  say  good 
night. 

"  One  moment,"  said  Mrs.  Sayre,  and 
her  voice  reached  and  silenced  them  all.  She 
stood  with  the  tips  of  her  frail  fingers  resting 
on  the  coffee  table.  "  You  have  all  been  most 
kind  in  coming  to  see  me  so  faithfully,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  courtesy  that  stung.  "  I  have 
appreciated  it,  as  any  old  woman  must  appreci- 
[340] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

ate  unselfish  devotion.  But  I  find  myself  less 
strong,  too  easily  tired  even  by  the  pleasures  of 
hospitality.  And  so  I  am  obliged  to  tell  you 
that  this  will  be  the  last  of  my  Tuesday  even- 
ings at  home.  I  regret  it,  and  I  thank  you  from 
my  heart." 

She  stood  in  her  place  until  the  last  one 
had  said  good  night  and  escaped ;  then  she  went 
to  her  room  and  closed  the  door. 

•Cousin  Emma  stared  in  pale  awe  at 
Adelaide. 

"  How  did  it  happen — how  did  she 
know?" 

"  I  went  and  told  her."  The  girl  was 
half  frightened,  half  triumphant.  "  I  asked 
her  to  come  and  look  at  them  through  the  por- 
tieres an  hour  ago.  But  I  never  dreamed  she 
would  do  this.  Still,  aren't  you  glad?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She  will  miss 
them,"  said  Emma  uneasily. 

Adelaide  did  not  see  how  anyone  could 
feel  the  lack  of  such  festivities,  yet  she  had  to 
acknowledge  a  dim  pathos  when  the  next  Tues- 
day evening  came.  Mrs.  Sayre  had  dressed 

[341] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

elaborately,  as  though  the  habit  were  too  strong 
to  be  put  away  at  once,  and,  as  the  clock  ap- 
proached nine,  her  eyes  kept  turning  expectantly 
toward  the  door. 

Adelaide  slipped  down  on  the  hearth- 
rug with  her  cheek  against  her  grandmother's 
knee.  "  It  is  nice  not  to  have  that  tiresome 
crowd  here,  isn't  it?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  a  great  relief."  Mrs. 
Sayre  had  started  slightly  at  the  reminder,  and 
she  now  leaned  back  heavily  in  her  chair.  "  A 
great  relief,"  she  repeated  wearily.  When  the 
portiere  was  pushed  back  a  few  moments  later, 
she  half  started  to  her  feet,  and  Adelaide  saw, 
with  dismay,  that  her  eyes  brightened,  to  cloud 
again  as  only  a  servant  with  firewood  appeared. 

"  But  they  were  hateful  old  deceiving 
frumps,"  she  assured  herself. 

At  bedtime  she  begged  to  read  aloud, 
but  the  old  lady  was  gently  inaccessible,  lost  in 
her  own  thoughts. 

"  Suppose  we  ask  some  new  people  for 
Tuesday  nights — nice  ones,"  suggested  Ade- 
laide, lingering  in  the  doorway. 

[342] 


A  foiled  Old  Lady 

"  My  dear,  everyone  who  knows  me 
has  been  at  liberty  to  come,"  was  the  stately 
answer.  "  We  will  not  send  out  into  the  high- 
ways. Good  night." 

All  that  week  Mrs.  Sayre  seemed 
very  feeble,  sitting  often  in  half  smiling  blank- 
ness,  wholly  content  if  Adelaide  was  near  her. 
When  Tuesday  evening  came  and  she  appeared 
in  the  soft  negligee  of  other  nights,  they 
hoped  she  would  not  remember,  and  Adelaide 
welcomed  Dwight  Marshall  with  a  warning 
against  any  reminder  of  what  day  it  was.  The 
old  lady  let  him  talk  to  her  for  a  few  minutes, 
then,  with  a  hint  of  her  old  briskness,  she  sent 
Cousin  Emma  to  see  that  the  library  fire  was 
going  well  and  the  lamp  lit. 

"  I  shall  leave  this  fire  to  you  two  young 
people,"  she  said.  "  You  are  a  good  boy, 
Dwight,  but  it  is  not  the  grandmother  you  come 
to  see."  She  went  away  smiling  at  their  con- 
fusion. 

Dwight,  seeing  Adelaide's  cheeks  crim- 
son, found  courage  to  take  one  of  her  hands 
and  press  it  gently  between  his. 

[343] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

"  Well,  it  isn't,  you  know !  "  he  said. 
"  You  do  know  it,  don't  you?  " 

An  hour  or  two  later  they  went  to  the 
library  hand  in  hand.  '  We  mustn't  wholly 
forget  the  perfectly  trained  grandmother,"  he 
had  suggested. 

"Ah,  don't!  "  she  exclaimed. 

In  the  doorway  they  paused.  The  old 
lady  sat  alone  in  the  glow  of  the  lamp,  her  head 
resting  on  her  hand.  Weakness  and  weariness 
were  in  every  line ;  the  shadow  of  the  end  lay  on 
her  worn  face.  Spread  on  the  table  beside  her 
in  a  wide  semicircle  were  rows  and  rows  of  pho- 
tographs, most  of  them  old  and  faded — men 
whose  faces  showed  strength,  or  personality,  or 
talent,  handsome  women  in  quaint  garb  once 
brilliantly  fashionable,  or  with  intellectual  fore- 
heads and  poised  penholders  or  magazines  un- 
der their  elbows,  a  goodly  company  of  person- 
ages, many  of  them  bearing  names  written  in 
the  history  of  the  city  or  of  the  nation,  all 
worthy  of  a  renowned  drawing-room.  Mrs. 
Sayre  was  spending  Tuesday  evening  with  her 
friends. 

[344] 


A  Spoiled  Old  Lady 

Adelaide  abruptly  turned  away,  and 
they  left  unseen.  In  the  other  room  she  leaned 
her  arms  on  the  mantelpiece  and  stared  into 
the  coals,  her  eyes  wide  with  some  growing 
distress. 

"  You  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  her, 
Adelaide,"  Dwight  reminded  her.  She  faced 
him  with  a  gesture  of  misery. 

"  I  have  killed  her,"  she  said  hotly. 
"  Oh,  don't  you  see !  I  took  away  her  vanity, 
her  pride.  It  was  that  that  kept  her  up;  that 
held  her  together;  and  I  knew  so  much,  I  called 
her  spoiled  and  took  it  away.  No,  don't  say 
anything ;  I  tell  you,  I  know !  I  have  been  feel- 
ing it  vaguely  for  weeks,  ever  since  one  dread- 
ful day  at  the  dressmaker's,  but  I  didn't  under- 
stand till  this  minute.  I  let  her  see  that  the 
effort  wasn't  worth  while,  and  when  she  began 
to  let  go,  there  was  nothing  to  stop  her.  Oh, 
it  is  horrible."  She  pressed  her  face  into  her 
palms. 

"Adelaide,"  he  protested,  "you  have 
been  the  joy  of  her  life.  All  this  just  means 
that  her  time  has  come." 

[345] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  better  for  her  to  go  than 
to  stay  as  she  was,"  she  said  sadly,  "  but  that 
doesn't  help  me.  I  was  a  presumptuous  fool. 
I  killed  her." 


[346] 


XVII 
The  Rule  of  the  Magnificent 

FATHER  couldn't  bear  Barry  Ham- 
mond, and  the  more  he  came  to  see  Nan,  the 
crosser  father  grew. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  can  find  to  ad- 
mire in  a  dude,"  he  broke  out  one  day,  when 
Barry  was  coming  to  dinner.  Mr.  Hammond 
isn't  a  dude,  but  he  dresses  well,  and  father 
never  will  admit  that  brains  and  a  high  collar 
can  go  together.  "  Why  don't  you  invite  some- 
body that  knows  something — like  Fred  Rich- 
ardson? There's  a  young  man  that's  worth 
while.  He'll  be  a  partner  by  the  time  he's 
thirty-five." 

Nan  was  the  only  one  of  us  who  had 
sense  enough  not  to  argue  with  father. 

"  We  will  have  Fred,  too,  some  time," 
she  said  serenely. 

Father  kept  going  back  to  the  charge  at 

[347] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

intervals.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  a  sneaking 
sympathy  with  the  way  he  felt  about  Mr. 
Hammond,  for,  though  the  latter  was  unaf- 
fected and  sincere  and  thoroughly  likable,  as 
well  as  socially  important,  I  never  felt  ab- 
solutely at  ease  with  him,  as  I  did,  for  instance, 
with  Fred  Richardson.  I  always  said  "  carn't," 
and  suppressed  all  the  "  my  goodnesses "  of 
ordinary  speech  when  he  was  around — as  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  have  done  all  the  time,  like 
Nan.  And  I  couldn't  get  over  a  sense  that  we 
were  honored  by  his  friendship,  though  Nan 
would  have  utterly  withered  me  if  I  had  let 
my  elation  up  to  the  surface.  She  took  him 
as  composedly  as  she  did  silk  linings. 

Nevertheless,  I  hadn't  an  atom  of  sym- 
pathy with  what  father  did  that  night,  for, 
fired  with  a  wish  to  show  Nan  "  how  a  dude 
looks  beside  a  real  man,"  he  invited  Fred  to 
come  home  to  dinner  "  just  as  he  was."  And 
poor  Fred,  never  dreaming  that  he  was  part  of 
a  plot,  and  always  grateful  for  a  chance  even  to 
look  at  Nan,  smoothed  his  hair  and  came. 
Father  was  wild  to  make  that  a  match  and  take 

[348] 


The  Rule  of  the  Magnificent 

Fred  into  the  firm,  but  he  did  not  understand 
Nan,  or  the  moral  influence  of  perfect  groom- 
ing. The  contrast  all  worked  the  wrong  way, 
and  father,  dimly  recognizing  a  failure,  was 
more  sarcastic  than  ever  about  high  collars. 

Barry  Hammond  kept  on  coming,  and 
it  wasn't  hard  to  tell  what  brought  him,  though 
Nan  never  lost  her  dignified  serenity,  or  talked 
of  him  with  any  significance.  And  father  kept 
on  growling.  You  see,  Mr.  Hammond  treated 
him  with  a  well-bred,  courteous  indifference 
that  was  as  genuine  as  it  was  unconscious,  and 
father,  who  had  grown  used  to  being  a  pretty 
big  person  down  town,  resented  the  attitude 
without  knowing  quite  what  it  was  that  irri- 
tated him.  He  snubbed  the  young  man  on 
every  occasion,  and  the  latter,  uniformly  polite, 
didn't  even  know  it,  evidently  thinking  that 
Nan  had  a  crusty  old  father,  but -that  it  needn't 
bother  them.  Finally,  father's  irritation  came 
to  a  definite  point. 

"  See  here,"  he  said  to  me  one  day; 
"  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  and  I  want  you  to  tell 
it  to  Nan.  That  young  dude  isn't  going  to 

[349] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

marry  into  this  family.  If  Nan  insists  on  hav- 
ing him,  she  won't  get  one  cent  from  me.  You 
tell  her  that." 

I  reasoned  a  little,  with  the  usual  result 
of  making  him  more  set  than  ever. 

"  Bring  along  a  man  that's  got  some 
force,  some  control  over  other  men,  and  doesn't 
spend  half  his  time  parting  his  hair,  and  I'll 
give  my  consent;  but  not  to  this  starched-up 
dude,"  he  said.  Power  over  other  men  was 
father's  standard  of  greatness,  his  secret  pas- 
sion. 

Nan  was  furious  about  it,  but  when 
Barry  asked  her  to  marry  him,  a  few  days  later, 
she  refused. 

"  I  don't  care  anything  about  father's 
consent,"  she  said,  when  she  told  me  about  it, 
"  but  I  wasn't  going  to  have  Barry  go  and  see 
him  in  his  inspired  moments,  and  hear  himself 
called  a  '  dood.'  I  didn't  care  to  explain  this, 
so  it  was  simpler  just  to  say  I  wouldn't." 

'  Then  he  won't  be  coming  here  any 
more?"  I  asked,  half  relieved  and  half  sorry. 
Nan  looked  a  little  disconcerted. 

[350] 


The  Rule  of  the  Magnificent 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  think  he  will  come — about 
as  usual.  It  wasn't  so  final  as  all  that,"  she 
said. 

It  was  in  absolute  unconsciousness  that 
Barry  worked  out  his  own  salvation,  which  be- 
gan a  few  nights  after  the  coming  of  the  majes- 
tic Bradley.  It  was  Nan  who  insisted  on  our 
having  a  butler,  for  the  rest  of  us  would  have 
been  satisfied  with  a  maid,  a  pretty  one  with  a 
cap,  for  the  table.  Dear  me,  two  years  before 
we'd  have  felt  rather  grand  to  have  had  the 
dinner  served  by  any  one  but  the  flushed  and 
ponderous  person  who  cooked  it.  But  now 
that  we  were  established  in  the  new  house,  Nan 
would  have  a  butler,  and  had  her  own  way,  as 
usual. 

We  thought  we  were  pretty  well  used 
to  the  new  order  of  things,  by  that  time.  We 
had  learned  to  throw  out  the  flowers  the  min- 
ute the  first  freshness  was  gone,  and  to  take 
lists  when  we  went  shopping  for  fear  we'd 
forget  something  (before  we  had  been  chiefly 
afraid  we'd  remember)  ;  and  when  Alice  found 
a  tailor  who  did  her  a  plain  blue  serge  for 

[351] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

eighty  dollars,  we  told  about  it  as  a  wonderful 
bargain.  Our  blue  serges  had  previously  cost 
about  fifteen  dollars  a  head,  but  we  weren't  con- 
sciously putting  on  airs.  It  doesn't  take  long 
to  get  into  the  way  of  saying  "  only  eighty," 
and  really  meaning  it.  But  that  horrible  but- 
ler made  two  whole  years'  experience  seem  as 
nothing. 

You  see,  he  had  lived  with  people  who 
had  said  "  only  eighty "  all  their  lives,  the 
really  grand  people,  who  didn't  care  to  know 
us  a  bit  more  now  than  they  had  in  our  dark 
ages.  The  first  night,  by  the  time  we  had 
squeezed  the  lemon  on  our  raw  oysters,  he  had 
begun  to  find  us  out,  and  "  the  soup  put  him 
dead  on,"  as  Bert  afterwards  said.  For,  you 
know,  poor  old  father  has  had  to  work  too 
hard  all  his  life  to  pay  much  attention  to  what 
he  calls  our  monkey  business,  and  of  course, 
mother  being  dead  so  long,  he  has  grown  care- 
less. We  don't  bother  him,  for  it  is  thanks  to 
him  that  we  do  know  some  of  the  little  refine- 
ments of  life  and  that  our  children  are  going 
to  know  more  (I  shouldn't  wonder  if  our 

[352] 


The  Rule  of  the  Magnificent 

grandchildren  were  real  swells).  But  I  think 
Nan  winces  a  little. 

As  the  dinner  went  on,  Bradley — that 
was  the  butler's  name — grew  more  and  more 
haughty,  and  by  dessert  the  back  of  his  neck 
appeared  to  have  petrified.  We  made  talk  and 
were  terribly  obliging  and  pleasant,  all  except 
father,  who  kept  an  uneasy  silence,  and  jumped 
half  a  foot  when  Bradley  stooped  majestically 
and  murmured  a  few  words  down  his  back. 

"H'r?  What's  that?"  he  exclaimed, 
looking  as  if  he  expected  a  bomb. 

"  What  kind  of  wine  do  you  want, 
father?  "  Nan  interpreted,  with  a  shade  of  im- 
patience. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  dismal 
period  in  which  an  intelligent,  strong-minded 
American  family  was  terrorized  by  one  stuck- 
up  snob  of  a  butler.  Nan  was  the  only  one 
who  didn't  grow  thin  and  nervous,  and  father 
had  a  real  attack  of  dyspepsia  the  third  day, 
from  eating  under  such  a  strain.  Our  funniest 
stories,  our  brightest  repartee,  never  brought  a 
flicker  of  human  sympathy  to  that  stern  face 

[353] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

hovering  over  the  feast;  our  most  effusive 
gratitude  never  softened  his  stony  aloofness. 
Nan  said  with  satisfaction  that  he  was  a  per- 
fect servant,  and  we  all  assented,  though  when 
Bert  murmured  "  Perfect  nuisance,"  our  hearts 
secretly  applauded.  We  were  very  uncomfort- 
able. In  short,  we  felt  as  though  some  proud 
scion  of  an  ancient  race  had  changed  places 
with  his  menials  to  win  a  bet. 

Sunday  night  Mr.  Hammond  came  to 
dinner,  and  father,  who  evidently  thought 
Bradley  was  infliction  enough,  said  things  in 
his  throat  that  we  discreetly  didn't  hear.  The 
meal  was  going  forward  more  or  less  stiffly. 
Bradley  was  doing  dethroned  royalty  around 
the  table,  and  most  of  us  were  trying  to  look  as 
if  we  had  forgotten  him.  Father  wanted  some 
cayenne  pepper,  but  couldn't  quite  get  his  voice 
pitched  to  ask  for  it,  and  I  was  thirstily  wait- 
ing for  the  Magnificent  to  see  my  empty  glass. 
Barry  was  trying  to  explain  to  Nan  why  a  yacht 
did  not  necessarily  have  to  go  the  way  the  wind 
did. 

"  Here,  I'll  show  you  with  a  diagram," 

[354] 


The  Rule  of  the  Magnificent 

he  said,  and,  after  feeling  in  his  pockets,  turned 
to  the  butler. 

"  Bring  me  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pen- 
cil," he  said,  as  naturally  as  though  Bradley 
were  a  maid  of  all  work  on  four  dollars  a  week. 
The  Magnificent  went  for  them  with  unex- 
pected promptness,  and  in  father's  eyes  there 
dawned  a  new  expression.  It  was  one  of  won- 
der, almost  of  respect. 

Another  incident,  a  few  nights  later, 
brought  the  same  look  back  again.  It  was  rain- 
ing hard,  and  father  and  I  were  sitting  in  the 
library,  from  which  we  could  get  a  clear  view 
of  the  big  front  hall,  when  Barry  Hammond 
called.  Now,  if  there  was  one  thing  more  than 
another  that  father  loathed,  it  was  to  have 
Bradley  help  him  on  or  off  with  his  overcoat. 
He  would  use  stratagem  to  avoid  it.  Sometimes 
he  would  grasp  it,  as  though  too  hurried  to 
stop,  and  put  it  on  out  of  doors,  and  one  cold 
day,  when  Bradley  got  there  first,  he  muttered 
something  about  the  heat  and  went  off  without 
it.  When  Bradley  let  in  Barry  Hammond,  this 
particular  night,  I  saw  father  lean  forward  and 

[355] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

watch  with  sudden  interest.  Barry  presented  his 
damp  back  to  the  Magnificent,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  let  himself  be  peeled  with  an  un- 
troubled countenance.  A  moment  later,  the 
Magnificent  was  down  on  one  knee,  humbly  re- 
moving the  overshoes  that  covered  Mr.  Ham- 
mond's patent  leathers.  And  Mr.  Hammond's 
face  was  still  serene.  Father  almost  gasped 
aloud. 

"  Did  you  get  wet?  "  I  asked,  as  he 
came  in. 

"  Very  little,  considering  that  I  walked 
down,"  he  answered,  going  to  the  fire.  "  Is 
Nan  home?  " 

"  H'm !  So  you  are  not  afraid  of  a 
little  rain?"  said  father,  a  trifle  less  ungra- 
ciously than  usual. 

"No;  I  like  it,"  said  Barry  indiffer- 
ently, quite  unconscious  of  how  he  had  helped 
on  his  cause. 

Father  did  not  refer  to  dudes  after 
that,  though  he  still  held  forth  on  his  pet  hobby 
of  "  a  man  who  can  handle  other  men  knows 
his  power  and  isn't  afraid  to  use  it " ;  for  he 

[356] 


The  Rule  of  the  Magnificent 

gloried  more  insistently  in  his  down-town  great- 
ness now  that  the  spell  of  Bradley  lay  heavy 
on  the  household.  It  was  at  dinner,  a  week  or 
two  later,  that  Barry  played  his  master  stroke. 
He  was  explaining  how  he  came  to  be  five  min- 
utes late. 

"  They  were  posting  the  winner  of  the 
Brooklyn,  and  I  had  to  see  who  won,"  he  said. 
Bradley  was  serving  the  soup,  and  I  noticed  that 
he  grew  suddenly  attentive.  It  was  the  first 
human  expression  I  had  ever  seen  on  his  face. 
"  You  know,  it's  the  big  race  of  the  year,  Dia- 
mond against  Nicholas,  Jr.,"  Barry  went  on, 
turning  to  Nan.  "  I  suppose  thousands  of  dol- 
lars will  change  hands  to-night.  Earlier  in  the 
afternoon  the  news  came  that  it  was  a  dead 
heat,  and  would  be  left  that  way.  Then  there 
was  some  kind  of  a  row,  and  it  was  finally  de- 
cided to  run  the  race  over  again."  The  butler, 
pausing  behind  Barry  with  a  plate  of  soup,  had 
grown  rigid;  his  face  was  red,  and  the  hand 
that  held  the  plate  shook.  He  was  listening 
breathlessly.  "  You  never  saw  such  an  ex- 
cited crowd,"  Barry  went  on,  all  unconscious. 

[357] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

'*  They  fairly  went  mad  when  the  winner  was 
posted " 

;' Which  got  it?"  broke  in  an  excited 
voice,  as  a  little  stream  of  soup  pattered  down 
on  the  carpet.  The  Magnificent  had  forgotten 
himself. 

There  was  a  startled  pause,  then  Barry 
turned  his  head  and  gave  the  man  a  cool,  delib- 
erate look.  It  was  neither  haughty  nor  reprov- 
ing, but  Bradley  pulled  himself  together  with 
a  muttered  apology,  and  went  on  serving  the 
dinner  with  a  humbled  tread. 

"  And  so,  you  see,  I  was  late,"  Barry 
continued,  to  Nan. 

As  the  others  were  leaving  the  dining 
room — I  generally  stayed  with  father  while  he 
smoked — the  butler,  with  an  apologetic  move- 
ment, stopped  Barry. 

"  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he 
said,  with  an  expression  none  of  us  had  ever 

seen.  "  I  had  heard  it  was  a  dead  heat,  so 
j » 

"  I  think  the  apology  should  go  to  the 
head  of  the  table,"  said  Barry  pleasantly. 

[358] 


The  Rule  of  the  Magnificent 

"Oh,  no,  no — that's  all  right,"  said 
my  father  hastily,  all  ready  to  run. 

Barry  leaned  his  arms  on  the  back  of  a 
chair. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  by  this  time  that 
Diamond  won?  "  he  said.  "  Do  you  play  the 
races  much,  Bradley?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  so,  a  good  deal. 
I  can't  seem  to  keep  out  of  it." 

"  Did  you  drop  much  to-night?  "  Barry 
continued.  Father  was  looking  from  one  to 
the  other  with  something  like  awe  in  his  face. 

"  Pretty  nearly  everything  I  had,  sir," 
was  the  despondent  answer. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  a  fool  you 
are  to  do  it,"  Barry  said. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  think  I'll  keep  away  from 
it,  for  a  while,  anyway." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Barry,  with  a  nod, 
as  he  strolled  off  to  find  Nan. 

Father  smoked  in  meditative  silence. 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  there  is  some- 
thing to  that  young  man,"  he  said  at  last.   "  He 
isn't — weak.    Nan  might  do  worse." 
[359] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Barry  came  to  him  for  his  consent  two 
days  later.  It  was  hard  for  father  to  give  in 
completely. 

"  Nan's  too  young,"  he  said  decidedly. 
"  Make  it  two  years  from  now,  or  not  at  all." 

Nan  acquiesced  to  the  delay  with  a 
calmness  that  irritated  her  fiance.  But  that 
evening,  when  father  and  I  were  having  his 
smoke,  she  came  and  dropped  down  beside  him. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  there  is  some- 
thing I  want  to  ask  of  you.  I  know  it  is  selfish, 
but  if  I'm  not  married  for  two  years,  it  won't 
matter  to  you  yet.  When  we  go  to  housekeep- 
ing I  want  you  to  let  us  have  Bradley." 

My  father's  face  lit  up  with  a  look  of 
absolute  radiance. 

"  I  know  it  is  unfair  of  me  when  you 
are  used  to  his  ways,"  Nan  went  on;  "but 
you'll  have  two  years  of  him,  anyway,  and 
perhaps  by " 

Father  was  looking  ten  years  younger. 

"Why,  little  daughter,"  he  said,  pat- 
ting her  hand,  "  of  course,  as  you  say,  we're 
used  to  him,  but  still,  if  you  want  him,  you 

[360] 


The  Rule  of  the  Magnificent 

shall  have  him.  We'll  do  all  right.  And  I 
suppose,"  he  added  reflectively,  "you'll  be 
wanting  money  for  your  trousseau  pretty  soon. 
Young  people  always  are  in  a  hurry  to  get  mar- 
ried! " 

Nan  was  married  three  months  later. 
The  Magnificent  went  with  her,  and  his  place 
was  filled  by  a  pretty  Irish  girl,  who  inwardly 
and  outwardly  looks  up  to  us.  And  we  laugh 
and  talk  as  in  the  old  days,  and  put  jelly  on 
our  bread  and  gravy  on  our  potatoes,  and  eat 
our  corn  on  the  cob  and  our  ice  cream  with  a 
spoon  and  our  little  birds  in  our  fingers  in  un- 
ruffled comfort. 

Fred  Richardson  comes  here  now  far 
more  than  he  did  in  the  old  days,  and  father, 
supremely  satisfied,  says  that  when  we  are  mar- 
ried we  can  have  anything  in  the  house  but 
Maggie. 


[361] 


XVIII 
The  Thrifty  Sarah 

"  IT'S  a  great  year  for  mothers/*  said 
Sarah  reflectively,  as  she  divided  the  tiny  steak 
with  scrupulous  exactness.  u  Ellen  has  brought 
hers  on  for  six  weeks,  and  Jean  Humphreys  has 
sent  for  hers,  and  Mrs.  Torrey  is  visiting  Isabel 
— she  sleeps  in  the  little  room  off  the  studio. 
Here,  these  peas  are  yours;  I  didn't  order  any. 
And  Stella  Brooks  Livingston  told  me  she  was 
going  to  devote  half  her  royalties  this  fall  to 
her  mother — bring  her  to  town  and  get  her 
clothes  and  take  her  to  things.  What  has  come 
over  you  all?  Is  it  conscience?" 

"Urn — perhaps,  a  little,"  said  Molly 
slowly,  eating  her  canned  peas  with  the  vague 
indifference  that  testifies  to  a  restaurant  life. 
"  That  started  it  with  me,  when  I  found  I 
couldn't  get  home.  But  it  isn't  all  that,  some 
way.  I  can't  analyze,  but  it's  something  more." 

[362] 


The  Thrifty  Sarah 

"  I  think  you  are  all  simply  reverting  to 
parents."  Sarah  was  eying  her  amusedly. 
"  You  have  had  your  years  of  freedom  and 
your  work  and  your  latch-keys,  and  now  the 
glamour  is  wearing  thin  and  you  are  turning 
back  to  home  and  mother.  Or,  rather,  you 
are  trying  to  compromise — to  mix  mother  and 
freedom.  It  won't  work,  though — you  can't 
do  it.  You  won't  acknowledge  it,  but  you  will 
all  be  frightfully  relieved  when  you  buy  those 
dear  old  ladies  their  return  tickets.'1 

"Not  at  all!  "  Molly  spoke  with  de- 
cision. "  We  shall  have  a  beautiful  time.  First 
thing  you  know,  you  will  be  sending  back  for 
yours." 

Sarah  shook  her  head  with  a  quick 
frown. 

"  Not  I.  She  would  loathe  it.  Besides, 
I  am  too  busy  to  take  her  about."  She 
shrugged  away  from  the  suggestion.  "  When 
is  yours  coming?  " 

'  To-morrow.  She  is  such  a  dear, 
Sarah !  And  think  of  having  all  one's  stock- 
ings darned.  I  shall  meet  her  at  the  train  with 

[363] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

a  work  basket."  Sarah  glanced  down  thought- 
fully in  the  direction  of  her  own  boots. 

"  There  is  something  in  that,"  she  ad- 
mitted. Then  she  laughed  with  a  sudden  idea. 
"  I'll  tell  you — I  will  give  you  all  a  parents' 
party.  Each  guest  must  bring  one  mother,  and 
only  one.  Wouldn't  it  be  funny — the  collec- 
tion?" 

"  I  think  it  would  be  very  sweet  and 
nice — not  funny  at  all,"  Molly  protested.  "  Go 
on  and  do  it,  Sarah.  We'll  come."  Sarah  sat 
smiling  into  her  teacup. 

"Can't  you  hear  them?  '  My  Stella— ' 
*  My  Isabel — '  '  My  Molly — '  If  you  were 
each  one  as  brilliant  as  mother  believes,  what 
a  glittering  array  it  would  be !  "  Sarah's  in- 
flection on  the  word  "  mother  "  reduced  it  to 
semi-humorous  slang. 

"  Well,  thank  Heaven  for  one  per- 
fectly undiscriminating  critic,"  said  Molly, 
with  a  laugh.  "  Now  I  must  get  back  to  work. 
I  am  doing  such  a  good  wall  paper,  Sarah — 
the  prettiest  design  I  ever  struck.  You  must 
have  it  when  you  build  your  country  house." 

[364] 


The  Thrifty  Sarah 

"  Thanks,  I  will,"  said  Sarah.  "  Will 
five  cents  do  for  the  tip?  Well,  ten,  then — 
you're  so  lavish,  Molly !  " 

They  parted  at  the  door,  and  Sarah 
turned  to  the  bank  to  deposit  a  check  she  had 
received  that  morning.  The  growing  pages  of 
figures  in  her  bank  book  gave  her  a  little  thrill 
of  satisfaction  as  she  walked  home.  They 
stood  for  freedom,  clothes,  books,  opera,  cabs, 
Europe  even;  it  was  worth  while  to  live  in  two 
tiny  rooms  and  let  these  be  lean  years  of  inces- 
sant work  with  that  prosperous  future  piling  up 
ahead  of  her. 

"  Some  day  Sarah  will  sit  on  a  pink 
satin  chair  and  dash  off  articles  on  a  gold  type- 
writer," the  spendthrift  Molly  had  prophesied 
— Molly,  who,  the  instant  she  found  herself 
ahead  of  her  expenses,  invited  all  her  friends 
to  dinner  or  brought  one  of  her  family  down 
from  the  little  country  home  for  a  week  of  city 
life.  Sarah  could  see  her  scanning  the  amuse- 
ment columns  for  plays  suitable  to  a  mother 
and  joyfully  bringing  home  surprises  of  silk 
blouses  and  lace  stocks.  She  winced  and 

[365] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

frowned  sharply,  thrusting  the  bank  book  into 
her  desk. 

"  Mother  would  hate  it;  she'd  be  in 
terror  of  the  streets,  and  the  noise  would  drive 
her  crazy,"  she  argued,  half  aloud.  "  And  go- 
ing out  to  meals  would  be  too  hard  for  her. 
Oh,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all!  "  And  she  turned 
resolutely  to  her  work.  But  something  made 
her  cross  that  afternoon.  She  jerked  impa- 
tiently at  her  papers,  and  once  stopped  to  make 
some  pencil  calculations  that  had  no  bearing  on 
her  article. 

A  few  days  later,  passing  through  a 
crowded  shop,  Sarah  paused  and  smiled  to  her- 
self at  two  figures  bending  absorbedly  over  an 
assortment  of  white  lawn  ties.  Molly's  mother 
was  a  gentle-looking  little  woman,  whose  quiet 
country  garb  had  already  begun  to  blossom  out 
in  spots  with  touches  of  city  smartness.  Molly 
was  choosing  and  setting  aside  ties  with  lavish 
enjoyment. 

"That  is  surely  enough,  dear  girl!" 
her  mother  was  saying  as  Sarah  came  up. 

"  This  is  the  one  who  is  going  to  give 

[366] 


The  Thrifty  Sarah 

the  mothers'  party,"  Molly  supplemented  her 
introduction.  "  I  have  told  everyone  about  it, 
Sarah,  so  you  can't  back  out." 

"  But,  indeed,  I  don't  want  to  back 
out,"  Sarah  protested.  The  remark  left  a  small 
sting.  Had  she,  then,  the  name  of  being  one 
who  backed  out?  She  did  not  often  entertain, 
of  course;  perhaps  she  sometimes  made  impul- 
sive suggestions  for  festivities  that  the  cooler 
afterthought  allowed  to  drop  and  be  forgotten. 
But  she  was  poor!  And  one  had  to  put  by 
money.  It  was  crazy  not  to,  when  one  worked 
so  hard  to  get  it.  She  had  proved  her  point 
to  her  entire  satisfaction  by  the  time  she 
reached  home,  but  still  the  resentment  lingered 
in  her  eyes,  and  before  taking  off  her  hat  she 
sat  down  at  her  desk  and  wrote  the  notes  of 
invitation  to  the  mothers'  party.  The  idea  no 
longer  amused  her  especially,  but  she  was  not 
going  to  have  them  say  she  backed  out. 

What  they  did  actually  say  came  to  her 
with  bitter  suddenness  the  next  afternoon  in 
Isabel  Torrey's  studio.  The  world  has  a  way 
of  seeing  the  facts  of  our  conduct  and  ignoring 

[367] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

the  softening  logic  that  explains  them — sorely 
trying  to  one  who  is  sensitive  to  public  opinion. 
Isabel's  big  canvases,  pulled  out  for  exhibition, 
divided  the  studio  into  sections,  and  Sarah 
stood  in  the  shadow  of  one  when  a  group 
paused  on  its  other  side. 

"  But  the  thrifty  Sarah  giving  the  party 
— that  is  what  amazes  me,"  an  amused  voice 
was  saying. 

"  Perhaps  she  has  brought  her  own 
mother  down,"  another  voice  suggested. 

"Not  Sarah!  She  prefers  to  lay  up 
treasures  in  the  Second  National — wise  girl." 

"  But  that  isn't  the  reason,  Ellen," 
Molly's  kindly  voice  broke  in.  "  She  told  me 
herself  her  mother  wouldn't  like  it — the  noise 
and  the  way  she  lives  and  all  that  She  didn't 
think  it  would  work — truly." 

"'  Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio,'"  was  the 
skeptical  answer.  "  Sarah  will  be  rich  some  day 
— but  she  won't  be  beloved.  She  didn't  use 

The  voices  passed  on,  leaving  Sarah 
white  with  anger.  She  slipped  out  and  walked 

[368] 


The  Thrifty  Sarah 

home,  her  mind  a  bitter  chaos  of  self-justifica- 
tion. They  were  unfair,  they  had  no  right! 
Why  shouldn't  she  be  careful  of  her  money, 
she  who  worked  so  hard  for  it?  She  asked 
nothing  of  them;  why  should  they  sit  up  and 
judge  her?  She  proclaimed  fiercely  that  she 
did  not  care  what  they  thought;  yet  through 
all  her  passionate  resentment  her  mind  kept  re- 
turning to  a  picture  that  she  had  been  learning 
not  to  see — a  patient  woman  fitting  her  needs 
to  her  tiny  income  in  a  small,  dull  town  and 
bravely  agreeing  that  Sarah  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  come  home  often.  It  was  eight 
months  since  the  last  visit.  Suddenly  Sarah  put 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried. 

An  hour  later  she  wrote  to  her  mother, 
inclosing  a  check  for  the  journey.  "  I  shall  ex- 
pect you  to  stay  a  week,"  she  said,  and  mailed 
the  letter  with  a  lightening  heart.  "  I'll  show 
them,"  she  muttered,  recollection  bringing  back 
a  flash  of  resentment  to  her  eyes. 

After  all,  it  was  pleasanter  than  she  had 
suspected — to  have  a  mother  coming.  Per- 
haps that  picture  she  had  been  forgetting  had 

[369] 


x  Mothers  and  Fathers 

troubled  her  more  than  she  realized.  Sarah 
started  to  prepare  one  of  her  two  tiny  rooms, 
then  went  boldly  out  and  hired  a  large  and 
comfortable  room  across  the  hall.  This  led  to 
several  minor  purchases,  and  a  surprise  or  two. 
She  hummed  over  her  preparations  and  undid 
her  packages  with  a  thrill  of  satisfaction.  She 
was  glad  she  had  a  handsome  new  gown  com- 
ing home;  her  mother  would  find  it  dazzling. 
And  she  herself  should  have  a  new  bonnet  or 
something.  Sarah's  blood  tingled  with  the  for- 
gotten joy  of  giving.  Her  head  was  full  of 
plans  when  she  opened  her  mother's  answer 
two  days  later,  and  sat  down  to  read  it. 

MY  DEAR,  GENEROUS  GIRL:  How  I 
wish  I  could!  But  your  Aunt  Bessie  cannot  do 
the  work,  and  you  see,  dear,  we  don't  keep  help 
any  more.  I  can't  quite  understand  it,  and  Mr. 
Jordan  says  it  will  come  out  all  right,  but  just 
now  we  don't  get  any  income,  and  so  for  six 
months  your  Aunt  Bessie  and  I  have  done  what 
we  could,  but  we  are  not  so  strong  as  we  were, 
and  the  hot  summer  was  hard  on  your  aunt.  I 
did  not  mean  to  tell  you,  dear,  you  work  so 

[37°] 


The  Thrifty  Sarah 

hard  and  have  quite  enough  on  your  mind,  but 
I  could  not  leave  your  aunt  to  do  all  the  work, 
for  lodgers  do  make  dirt,  and  we  give  them 
their  breakfast.  They  are  very  nice  and  re- 
spectful to  us,  so  you  need  not  mind,  though  I 
did  not  mean  to  tell  you.  Besides,  I  have  not 
anything  fit  to  wear  in  a  city  except  my  black 
silk,  though  my  old  alpaca  does  well  enough 
here.  Don't  worry  about  me,  Sarah.  Mr.  Jor- 
dan says  he  may  have  it  straightened  out  by 
New  Year's.  If  you  don't  mind,  I  will  keep 
the  check  for  the  grocer — we  could  not  help 
falling  behind  a  little.  I  hope  you  won't  be 
angry  about  the  lodgers.  They  have  the  two 
west  rooms,  and  are  always  polite.  I  wish  I 
could  see  you,  my  dear  girl.  Sometimes  I  real- 
ize that  I  am  becoming  an  old  woman.  I 
should  have  enjoyed  your  party  for  the  moth- 
ers. It  was  a  kind  idea. 

Your  loving  MOTHER. 

P.  S. — You  are  not  to  be  troubled 
about  me,  but  I  had  to  tell  you,  to  explain  why 
I  could  not  come. 

The  letter  slipped  from  Sarah's  hand 
and  she  sat  staring  fixedly  in  front  of  her.  For 
six  months — all  her  own  work — and  lodgers. 

[371] 


Mothers  and  Fathers 

Sarah's  thoughts  turned  to  the  gifts  she  had  felt 
so  generous  in  buying — a  pair  of  gloves,  four 
handkerchiefs,  and  a  veil.  The  color  flushed 
to  the  edges  of  her  hair.  Some  one  knocked 
and  a  box  was  handed  her.  She  opened  it  ab- 
sently, to  see  the  shining  folds  of  the  gown 
she  had  absolutely  had  to  have.  The  bill  lay 
on  top — ninety-five  dollars.  Sarah  covered  it 
hastily,  and  read  the  letter  through  again,  un- 
sparingly. Then  she  started  up  with  a  little 
cry  of  pain. 

"  Oh,  how  could  I !  How  could  I !  " 
she  whispered.  She  turned  impetuously  to  her 
desk  to  write  and  her  eyes  fell  on  a  time-table. 
She  caught  it  up,  and  a  moment  later  was 
thrusting  things  into  a  traveling  bag  and  pin- 
ing on  her  hat  with  shaking  fingers. 

The  night  of  the  mothers'  party,  each 
arrival  had  a  cordial  "  Oh !  "  of  surprise  to  find 
an  elderly  woman  presiding  with  Sarah — a 
woman  with  a  worn  face,  but  with  sweet,  kind 
eyes  that  once  or  twice  seemed  near  tears  and 
a  smile  tremulous  with  some  inner  happiness. 

"  I  am  to  stay  a  month,"  she  told  them, 
[372] 


The  Thrifty  Sarah 

and  evidently  held  back  other  pleasant  secrets 
by  main  force. 

"  The  thrifty  Sarah  is  a  good  sort — I 
take  it  all  back,"  some  one  murmured,  turning 
away  from  the  bright  old  face. 

"  I  told  you  she  was,"  answered  Molly 
triumphantly.  And  Sarah,  watching  them, 
knew  what  had  been  said,  and  wondered  if  it 
would  always  hurt  like  this. 


THE   END 


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